


Five Nights at Kyle's

by boitanosbitch



Series: FNAK [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: (I hate the word lovers but this is the trope), (no one dies), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, High School, M/M, Parental Abuse, Pining, Slow Burn, Suicide mention, randy marsh is a certified bastard, taming strange-inspired ike, the kendy is a lowkey spoiler but I want it in that tag since it's so depleted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28889088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boitanosbitch/pseuds/boitanosbitch
Summary: A winter break apart turns into winter break alone, together, at Kyle’s house for three weeks. Stan and Kyle must reckon with how their relationship has evolved, for better or for worse.-----“Stan shifts his torso to Kyle’s side of the bed, flopped down on his stomach with a hand clutching at his hair. ‘I think…’ His back spasms before he belches. ‘Dude I might still be drunk.’ He laughs then winces, groaning into the mattress.‘You know you’re supposed to have your binge drinking phase in college, right?’‘What can I say, I’m an overachiever.’”
Relationships: Kenny McCormick/Wendy Testaburger, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Series: FNAK [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191827
Comments: 126
Kudos: 171





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> takes places sometime in the early 2010s, this fic pretends seasons 16 - onward didn’t happen (for the most part).

It’s true that the best parts of Kyle’s life are also the worst. Saturday mornings, for example. There are three minutes from when Kyle first opens his eyes that are blanketly blissful, something warm pressing against his side and the scent of someone else seeping into his sheets. In these three minutes the objecting voices in his head are still dead to the world, and he can enjoy the situation for what it is. His best friend asleep next to him in bed, breathing steady with his mouth open just a little. Kyle’s made fun of Stan countless times for being a secret mouth breather—an accusation Stan refuses to own up to. Kyle could of course just take a picture while Stan’s sleeping, but he doesn’t trust himself to get rid of the picture after the ridicule is over. Tamping everything else down is hard enough.

Minute four of the morning is when things tip from bliss to blistering. There’s a gap in his curtains that the sun manages to snake through every morning, lasering at his eyes so he can’t go back to sleep despite his efforts. Then his brain wakes up and his heart and hormones kick into gear, followed shortly by his bladder. If he’s being honest, his smaller-than-average-bladder has saved him from a lot of awful mornings, when it feels like getting out of bed would literally kill him. His bladder insists, _no, morning wood will not kill you, but me exploding will_. By the time he’s flushing, shame has fully replaced whatever misgivings he had about leaving Stan’s side, and his usual response is to channel his self-flagellating into something more productive, like throwing a pillow at Stan’s head. 

A hand emerges from the mass of blankets, flipping Kyle the bird. 

“C’mon, if you don’t eat now my mom’s gonna rope you into staying for lunch.”

Stan groans. “Who says I don’t want to stay for lunch?”

Kyle huffs as quietly as possible. Stan’s head has emerged now, shaking a hand through his hair. “Dude, Shabbat lunch sucks,” Kyle says. “You always forget and then get mad that you’re bored.”

“It’s just ‘cus your dad prays really slow.”

“Dude.” Kyle pulls the pillow out from under Stan’s face. “Get the fuck up or I’m gonna send Ike in here.”

“Ugh, god, ok.” 

Ike and Kyle are far from friends, but he never turns down an opportunity to jump on top of a sleeping person, feet to sternum. Sometimes feet to throat, if he isn’t aiming carefully. Puberty hit Ike about a year ago, hard, and frankly Kyle is glad he won’t be living here to see what high school does to him. 

“Dude, are you ok?”

Stan has shifted his torso to Kyle’s side of the bed, flopped on his stomach with a hand clutching at his hair.

“I don’t know,” Stan says. “I think...” His back spasms before he belches. “Dude I might still be drunk.” He laughs then winces, groaning into the mattress. 

“You know you’re supposed to have your binge drinking phase in college, right?”

“What can I say, I’m an overachiever.”

“Here.” Kyle throws Stan’s shirt and pants onto the bed. “Get dressed, I’ll tell my mom you’re coming down.”

“Dude, can you just wait, like, five fucking seconds?”

“I’ll see if I can get her to make waffles.” 

Kyle closes the door behind him and heads downstairs. He could wait five seconds for Stan to get dressed, but he doesn’t feel like going through it this morning. He’s admittedly extremely bummed that he’ll be missing this routine for the next three weekends when the Broflovskis travel to Toronto for Ike’s “cultural heritage” trip over winter break. Ike’s eighth grade class is traveling there for their grad trip, and when Kyle’s mom found out they were going to Toronto she signed up to be a chaperone. And wouldn’t it be a great experience to bring the whole family along, to really support Ike through all of it. The rest of the class isn’t joining in until after Christmas, but since Hanukkah happened earlier that month, Kyle’s parents thought it’d be nice to take some vacation on top of it. For Kyle, a week alone with his overbearing parents and his little brother who thinks he’s the lamest person alive, followed by two weeks with 20 eighth-graders who all tend to share Ike’s opinion, is not what he would call “taking time off.” Now that they’re leaving in two days, he wishes he had fought harder against it. 

Ike is at the dining table texting. Kyle’s heard that he has a girlfriend, possibly two, since he cites both a ‘Jessica’ and a ‘Bethany’ when asked about it. 

“Hey, Ike.”

No response. Kyle’s not surprised, though he’s hopeful that maybe before he leaves for college he might get at least a nod back. Kyle walks into the kitchen, his mother already working on sides for lunch. 

“Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning, Kyle!” She brightens when she sees him, though she doesn’t stop stirring. “How did you sleep last night?”

“Fine.”

“You didn’t come back until after your father and I went to bed.”

This is a favorite of hers, stating a fact as a form of interrogation. Kyle hates it for its effectiveness. 

“Yeah, we ran into Butters while we were out and got sidetracked.”

“Oh. I see.”

They hadn't run into Butters, but he’s the best scapegoat among his classmates to pretend he’d hung out with. Even his mom knows Butters is a wimp, and his mother has some vague beef with Mrs. Stotch that usually gets her to change the topic entirely. 

In reality, after dinner Kyle and Stan took a walk like they usually do. They got high in the park, like they usually do, but Stan wanted to stop at his house to grab beer from the garage fridge before going back to Kyle’s. _My dad’s not even supposed to buy it, so he’s not going to say anything if it’s missing._ Kyle couldn’t argue with that, and didn’t have the energy to fight with Stan over his drinking again. He was already high and just wanted to have a good night. It’s not like Stan’s an alcoholic. Kyle would know if he was. Definitely. 

Stan needled him about how pathetic drinking alone is until Kyle agreed to sip on a can too. He doesn’t remember finishing it, but all the cans were definitely empty by the time they left the park. They shooed away a group of sixth-graders who were stalking them from the bushes, whispering among themselves like they had an ambush plan. Kyle remembers being younger than that, watching the older kids pass beers and cigarettes between them, couples sneaking off into the trees together. Kyle had wondered then what they’d be like at that age, how tall they would get and if they’d all have girlfriends by then. Who would leave South Park for college, if they’d even all still be friends by that time. Kyle’s dad wasn’t friends with any of his childhood pals, he knew it was a possibility. Kyle-Now thinks Kyle-Then would be happy to know he still has Stan, at least. 

Stan was swaying on his feet as they walked back to Kyle’s and they waited in his backyard for the light in his parents’ window to go out before they snuck back up the stairs. Stan was in the mood for talking but despite Kyle’s best efforts, he’d hit the part of his high that made coherent thought almost impossible, thoughts slipping away as soon as he’d had them. He barely remembers falling asleep, each of them tucked into opposite corners of his full mattress, no touching. That’s how they justify it. Although maybe it is justified, and Kyle’s just doing it again. This morning, sober, he’s glad he passed out without overthinking it. Stan doesn’t overthink things. He’s kind of taking a while to come downstairs, too.

“Is Stan staying for lunch?” his mother asks. 

“Can we have waffles for breakfast?” He doesn’t know the answer to her question, isn’t sure what he wants the answer to be either.

“Kyle, do you see the state of this kitchen? Do you think I have time to be making you and your little friend waffles?”

He hates when she calls him that. “Sorry, I’m just being nostalgic. You always used to make them for us.” Preying on his mother’s empty nest worries has been especially effective lately. It occurs to him that her redirected anxieties may be why Ike hates him so much.

“Oh, alright,” she rolls her eyes. “But you have to set the table for yourselves, I don’t want you eating in front of the TV.”

“Sweet, thanks.”

“Now give your mother a kiss.”

“Ugh, Mom.”

“Do you want your waffles or not?” She displays her cheek, index finger poking into the flesh.

Kyle groans and walks around the counter, giving her a quick peck before hurrying out of the kitchen. Maybe it’s a good thing Stan can’t get his ass out of bed.

Ike’s not at the dining table anymore, instead at the top of the stairs pointing his thumb back at the bathroom. Kyle trots up.

“Dude, I think your boyfriend’s sick.”

Kyle shoves past him, knocking on the door.

“Stan? Are you ok?”

No answer. Knock again.

“Stan?”

Muffled, from the other side, “I already told you.”

“Dude, can I come in?” The accompanying whine seems affirmative, and Kyle steps in, closing the door behind him. He hears Ike shouting _ooOOoo!_ from the other side and ignores him.

Stan’s head is bowed into the toilet bowl, his back lurching as he dry heaves. Kyle sits on the tile by the door.

“Fuck dude, are you good?”

“Never better,” echoes from the porcelain. 

“How much did you even drink last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

Kyle remembers picking up roughly six beers from Stan’s house, smuggled into their coat pockets and chilling his ribs as they walked. 

“My mom said she’ll make us waffles.”

Stan’s head lifts from the bowl and he wipes his mouth, sour smile on his face. “Dude, I don’t think I can eat anything right now.”

“Well you fucking better.” Kyle kicks out his leg at Stan. “She was kind of pissed I even asked. She wants to know if you’re staying for lunch.”

“Am I _allowed?”_

Kyle grunts. “Whatever, dude. Just don’t complain this time.”

He holds up the _Star Trek_ hand sign. “Scout’s honor.”

Already color is returning to Stan’s face. Kyle doesn’t understand how that works so well for him. When Kyle has to vomit, for any reason, it feels like his insides have been carved out like gelatin with a pocket knife, and it takes no less than ten hours to recover. Stan stretches his arms up like he’s just getting out of bed, comfortable, and smacks his lips. Kyle will miss this. Even this.

“Eugh. My mouth tastes fucking rank, dude.”

“You brought your toothbrush, right?”

“I think I forgot it. Do you have like, mouthwash or anything?”

Kyle digs under the sink for a bottle and hands it to Stan, who tips it back, bottoms up.

“Uh, dude,” Kyle laughs. “Careful not to swallow any, it has alcohol in it.”

Stan’s eye roll seems pointed somehow, like he’s saying _I know_. He swishes for a full minute, holding a finger up to Kyle when he tries to say something, before pushing up onto his knees and spitting into the sink. 

“My mom’s gonna ask what took you so long,” Kyle says. It’s not that he minds lying to his mother, he’s just not very good at it. 

“Tell her I have the flu.”

Kyle barks a laugh. “You do _not_ want to say that. I know you know what she’s like.”

“Good point. Whatever, Ike’s probably already told her we’re up here circle jerking or something.”

It’s not fair when Stan makes Kyle blush, complexionally challenged as he is. “Wouldn’t you need another person to make that a circle?”

“I’ll just say your dad was here too.”

“Ugh, sick, dude.”

Stan pushes himself to his feet and they join the others downstairs. Ike gives them a look as they put place settings down, Kyle shoving a fork under Ike’s elbow on the tabletop. Kyle’s mom luckily barely acknowledges Stan with a quick _good morning, Stanley_ , entirely wrapped up in whatever she’s making and their insufficient supply of sour cream. Kyle grabs the plate of waffles from the countertop and brings them to the table. Ike takes one without asking or looking up from his phone. Kyle and Stan eat mostly in silence, Stan stealing glances at last night’s game playing in the living room that Kyle’s dad is watching. Stan doesn’t understand this about Kyle’s parents, and frankly, neither does Kyle. Despite observing Shabbat they don’t adhere to the no technology rule, and they only go to temple on the High Holy Days. It was annoying for Kyle, as a child, to never really know what the rules were. These days he’s happy to live in ignorance of the intricacies of what his parents find acceptable and unacceptable. 

It’s lunch before Kyle knows it, and he’s still too full from the waffles to eat much of the feast. Since Stan is there, Kyle’s mother serves extra helpings of slaw and cholent. Kyle can tell that Stan’s mouth is watering just by the look on his face. Sometimes he thinks his mother would’ve been happier if she’d had Stan as a kid. At least he has an appetite. 

Kyle’s father joins the table last, standing by the candles and challah. Stan is right, Kyle’s dad does pray slowly, and incredibly out of key, but they stay silent as he takes up the tune. _Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, melech haolum..._

At this point Stan can say Kiddush under his breath while Kyle’s dad recites aloud to the table, and Kyle does his best to ignore the feeling that crawls into his stomach watching him mouth the words. The worst is when Kyle’s saying it, his voice breaking when he notices Stan smiling at him like it’s taking everything not to laugh. _I wish I could get a video of you doing it,_ Stan said once. _I’d murder you in your sleep if you ever showed anyone that, ever,_ Kyle had said. He’s dared Stan to try leading it more than once, but he claims it would be sacrilegious, which is probably true. He can only imagine the shock and happy surprise on his mother’s face as Stan sings the words, slurring the syllables together. It’d still be more impressive than any performance of Kyle’s. He’s wondered how Stan memorized it considering his memory is what he blames 90% of his academic problems on. _Maybe he just cares more,_ Kyle thinks, before shoving the thought away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny bell dings. One point for the _Does_ list. 

Kyle doesn’t like to think about the list, not consciously anyway. It’s patently stupid, he knows this, and yet the tally continues. Neurotic as it may be, the system is fairly simple: every interaction with Stan concludes with Kyle filing it away under one of two lists—the _Does Like Kyle_ list, and the _Doesn’t Like Kyle_ list. He’s aware that things aren’t as black and white as that, so sometimes it gets filed under both. When the calculations are all done, they’re about even. This is the hilarious torture that is Kyle’s life—compiling arguments like he’s an attorney either against or in support of reciprocation. He lays out the evidence of one list against the other in his head, mostly in the shower, whether he’s for or against depending on his mood. These days he prefers to stay cynical; it feels safer and strangely comforting as graduation approaches. But what about this, why does he remember the prayer? Why does he bother letting Kyle know, like he wants to impress him? Although, Kyle has the pledge of allegiance memorized, and that doesn’t mean he’s patriotic. Counterpoint for the _Doesn’t_ list.

Stan mimes chugging the wine cup when it comes to him, then takes a polite sip and passes it to Ike. To his credit, Stan’s faring better than Kyle would’ve thought. Usually by now he’d be tapping his foot and looking at his phone, checking the time and making excuses to use the bathroom or leaving completely. Those moments are littered all over the _Doesn’t_ list. Today though, he seems calm and a little far away. He catches Kyle’s eye as they sit down and start passing around food. Small smile, a nod to check his text messages. Ding—point for _Does._ Kyle looks at his phone from his lap. 

_dude I took this weed gummy thing from Kenny after the waffles. im F L Y I N G._

Kyle rolls his eyes and nudges Stan’s foot under the table. Stan stifles his laughter with cholent. Now his appetite makes sense, and his doofy smile. Point rescinded.

“So, boys, how did your finals go?” Kyle’s mom asks. 

“Fine,” they say in unison.

“Just fine?”

“Oh, come on, Sheila,” Kyle’s dad says. “You can’t expect complete sentences from teenagers.”

Kyle sighs. “It went ok. Better?”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sheila says, with a look over her glass at Kyle that he knows means she’ll be speaking to him later about his ‘tone.’ “And how about you, Stan?”

“Oh yeah, all good. I mean.” He pauses a few seconds longer than is normal as he dislodges something from his teeth with his tongue. “It wasn’t a breeze or anything, but I definitely passed.”

“That’s _—_ that’s very good.” Kyle’s mom looks at his father and they share a look of restrained concern. _Ha—_ Kyle thinks. If only they knew how much of a struggle it was to get Stan to turn in work the whole semester, to even stay awake while they were supposed to be studying. 

The reality is that Stan only really needs to pass three classes to make sure he gets to college. The college counselor said that his grades weren’t great, but with a good enough essay and recommendations he could get into CU Denver. Kyle did early decision with University of Denver. He thinks the full ride had something to do with appearing inclusive to all faiths, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The three classes Stan needed were 12th grade English, Government, and Honors Biology. The first two because it was required of every student, and the last because Stan had failed it freshman year and waited this long to make it up. Kyle has tried not to let on how happy he is that Stan passed; it would implicate his doubt. There were several nights in the last week that he dreamt of crossing the stage at graduation, Stan waving at him from the stands because he couldn’t get his shit together.

Stan passing English brings another relief, as it means he hasn’t been lying to Kyle. 

Ms. Dacey is pretty, sure, but Kyle wouldn’t have thought she was Stan’s type if he didn’t spend so much time with her. It started out as hanging behind a few minutes after class, a book recommendation or an explanation of a grade. She’s the youngest teacher at Park High and if Stan liked her, he’d have plenty of company. The weird part was how she seemed to like talking to Stan, too. The first time Kenny made a comment about it, when they’d been waiting for Stan for fifteen minutes out in the hall, Kyle thought Kenny was just being a dick. 

“Do you think he’s getting a BJ in there?” Kenny elbowed him. 

“Shut the fuck up, dude. That’s gross.”

“What’s gross about getting a beej from a hot chick?”

“She’s not ‘a hot chick,’ she’s our teacher.”

“Same difference dude.” Stan had come out of the room just then, hitching his backpack onto his shoulders. “Dude!” Kenny clapped a hand on his back. “Where are we at, my man? Are we laying the groundwork still, or are you in?”

“In where?” Stan asked.

“You know.” Kenny put his hands on the back of his head and thrust his hips forward, making a high pitched squeaking noise as he did. 

Stan rolled his eyes, not deigning to respond. It had been encouraging to Kyle, though the blush that crept up Stan’s neck didn’t escape his notice. Within a week all the guys were talking about it, cracking jokes during class _—_ even in front of Ms. Dacey _—_ all to Stan’s sheepish denial. Kyle had the sense that Stan was flattered by the rumor, if not bolstered by it, and to put it mildly, the whole thing drove Kyle fucking crazy. 

In early November, Stan spent the entire lunch period in Ms. Dacey’s room. Kenny was absent that day, some vague reason that’s hazy in Kyle’s memory, and Kyle waited alone at their table for 25 minutes before he went looking for Stan. All 16 of his texts went unanswered, their tone shifting from curious to concerned to pissed to Very Concerned. Eventually though, and to no one’s surprise but Kyle’s, he found Stan sitting on a desk in Ms. Dacey’s room, her standing in front of him, looking serious while she smiled. The door was open but the hall was quiet, and Kyle knew they probably thought they were getting away with it. He stood outside the door trying not to hyperventilate, grabbing Stan’s arm when he walked through the door and taking him outside to the frost. 

The ultimatum was simple: “Tell me what’s she’s doing to you or I’m calling the cops.” Either way, Kyle was going to call the cops. He just wanted to know if Stan was going to try to defend her or not. 

Stan’s face had gotten red and he tripped over his words as he talked, but sighed more than anything else, like it hurt him to say it out loud. It’s nothing like what people think, he’d said. The truth of it was that Stan was failing English, despite the popular belief that she gave him good grades for “good behavior.” He’d been staying after class to discuss extra credit assignments, get tutoring before exams, that kind of thing. She didn’t like him that way, he didn’t think, but he was ashamed to say he didn’t really care if she did. He needed to pass the class and if that’s what worked, it worked. 

Kyle thought he was going to cry. Stan looked like he might too. They were kids the last time they’d done that. 

“That’s rape, you know that, right? If she did something to you that would be rape.”

“God, Kyle, she’s like, not even thirty, she’s not old.”

“That doesn’t fucking matter. Ok? Tell me you fucking get that, and, and that you won’t do it anymore.”

“Kyle. I _have_ to pass. I don’t graduate if I fail.”

“I know that,” Kyle swallowed, pretending he wasn’t thinking about it all the time. “But you can’t just _—_ ”

“It’ll be fine, dude. I promise. I can take care of this, ok?” 

He didn’t stop hanging with her after class, but it was less. Kyle hoped she would get the message, and that it wouldn’t come with retribution. 

Stan shoves a quarter of the challah loaf into his mouth and almost snorts it through his nose laughing at Kyle’s face. Kyle knows he’s doing a bad job of playing it cool, but he doesn’t normally have to tell his parents six lies before noon. It’s unusual for daytime Stan to be this reckless. Nighttime Stan is a different animal, but while the sun is up Kyle expects him to not trip balls during Shabbat. They kick each other under the table for a few minutes, Stan making bug eyes at him and then giggling into his glass. 

“Stanley, how are your parents?” Kyle’s dad asks after an interminable period of choked laughter.

“They’re super, Mr. Broflovski,” Stan says, smiling toothily. “Thanks for asking.” He squeezes his lips together then flashes a mouthful of dough where his teeth should be at Kyle. 

“Oh, I’m, uh. Glad to hear that.”

In truth, Kyle doesn’t really know how true Stan’s statement is. It’s been a few months since he’s had any kind of real conversation with Stan about life at home. Even then, he usually says a variation of the same thing. _My parents hate each other. I wish they would’ve stayed divorced. It’s fine, they’re just assholes._ Kyle might believe him, that it’s the same old shit, but Shelly moved away to college three years ago and has only visited once since. Stan coming over for Shabbat dinner only really started as a tradition in sophomore year, right after she left, and even then it was usually just once a month or so. Now his mother makes meals for five on Fridays, and if things keep up, for Saturday lunch, too. _Does_ gets points for Stan wanting to spend so much time with him, _Doesn’t_ gets points for Stan’s homelife getting so shitty he’s practically moved into Kyle’s bedroom. It feels sleazy to warp Stan’s personal tragedies into exhibits in Kyle’s mental courtroom, but if he could stop doing it, he would have by now. 

“Say, Stanley, is your dad still into that tween wave music?” Kyle’s dad sits back and looks into his head, remembering something Kyle’s probably blocked out. “Ah, Randy, he’s always been quite the risk-taker.”

“Oh, haha,” Stan says, suddenly faraway sounding and monotone. “No, not really. These days he’s into Norwegian death metal.”

“Is that so?” Kyle’s parents give each other a look, then his father leans forward, ready to ask questions. Kyle hates this part where everyone is laughing about their own joke in their own heads—even Stan smiling at something unknown—except none of it is actually funny. 

“Can we be excused?” Kyle asks, standing up before anyone can answer. 

“Kyle, help your mother clean up first.”

“I can’t, Stan has to be somewhere, I’m walking him out.”

“Kyle!” His mother stands as Kyle drags Stan out of his seat and pushes him toward the stairs. 

He doesn’t look back, he’ll lose his nerve. “What, Mom, what?”

“Kyle, where are you going!”

“Stan doesn’t want me to tell you, it’s private,” he calls over his shoulder, starting up the steps. They get into his room and Kyle leans against the door after closing it. His arms are crossed and he’s aware of how pouty he looks, but the guy acting like a toddler probably won’t notice anyway.

“Dude, I wasn’t done eating,” Stan says, sitting on Kyle’s bed.

“What the fuck, Stan.”

“Hm?”

“Hello! You’re high?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Stan laughs, then flops back onto the mattress. Kyle sighs and walks over to look down at him.

“What the fuck, dude, why didn’t you tell me?”

Stan reaches out and grabs onto Kyle’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Kyle, that was shitty of me. I just started thinking about how boring the lunch was gonna be and then I remembered I had the gummies in my bag…” He trails off like that’s a sufficient explanation.

“You could’ve at least offered me some.”

“Sorry.” Stan’s brow worries like it’s hurting him. “I thought it would stress you out.”

He’s right, it would’ve stressed him out. It was bad enough struggling to cover for Stan while sober. 

“Whatever.” Kyle starts gathering up Stan’s stuff, shoving things into his backpack.

“Oh, do you actually want me to leave?”

Kyle’s stomach twists at his tone. _Does_ points for being sad to leave, _Doesn’t_ points because it probably pissesd him off. 

“I’ll meet you at the park,” Kyle says. They’d agreed to a pickup game with Token and Craig around four that afternoon. Only three hours of being apart, but it still makes Kyle’s stomach clench uncomfortably. 

“Ok. Yeah, that works I guess.”

“I just have to help my mom clean up here, then I can head over.”

“I can wait for you, if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Kyle says, though it’s not what he wants at all, and not really fine either, depending on one’s perspective. Their days of unchecked codependency are coming to an end, like it or not, and Kyle’s instinct tells him to start dealing with it sooner rather than later. 

“If you say so.” Stan heaves himself upright and pulls his bag onto his shoulder. “But if I walk off a cliff or something because you weren’t watching me, I will haunt you.”

“Dude, it’s just weed, not acid, right?”

Stan shrugs. “It’s from Kenny, so who knows.”

Kyle wishes he could say he’s gotten sick of babysitting Stan while he’s fucked up, but it hasn’t happened yet. It’s annoying, yes, and he wishes Stan didn’t feel like he has to be on something to have a good time, but it isn’t the same as babysitting Kenny. A high Kenny is horny and reckless and has a tendency to wander off, whereas a high Stan likes to lean against Kyle and fall asleep talking about guitar chords and brain waves somehow being connected. There are times Kyle even enjoys it, spending time with a Stan that doesn’t worry or brood or lie to him. But to cop to that feels like admitting something, and six months before graduation doesn’t feel like a good time to start confessing. 

At the end of the driveway Stan gives Kyle a particularly long hug, though his arms are loose around Kyle’s sides. Points for _Does_ ? When he pulls back and smiles at Kyle with a glazed face, the point goes into the ether _—_ too vague to work for either case. 

“Ok, dude, I’ll see you in a little bit.”

“Bye, Kyle!” Stan waves and shouts.

Kyle waves back and starts composing a text: _dude let me know when ur home & that u haven’t walked off a cliff _

Twenty minutes later, while Kyle’s laying out clothes on his bed to pack, he gets a response in the form of a very closeup blurry shot of Kenny’s nose.

_not at home. went to kenny’s._

Kyle huffs, replies: _r u still coming later?_

Stan, after a minute: _yea. clyde’s coming too. sry._

Kyle closes his eyes and sighs, chewing on his inner cheek. Clyde’s presence is almost enough to make Kyle not want to come, because wherever Clyde and his friends are, Cartman is likely there too. They haven’t had real beef in years, but Kyle’s guard has never dropped for a second when it comes to him. Whatever. It’s worth it to see Stan before Kyle leaves.

_it’s fine. see u then._

Stan’s ability to tolerate being around people he hates is something Kyle has both despised and envied throughout their friendship. It probably stems from a lifetime living with Randy, but Kyle still thinks it would be pretty great to not boil with rage every time someone says something he disagrees with. Dumbass bro-talk and pissing contests aside, Kyle has his reasons for hating Clyde. Stan might know what it is, but he’s never said anything, and Kyle is fine to never bring it up ever.

Kyle still debates whether it was the best night of his life or the worst _—_ almost four years on and the trial continues. Their friend group became less insular as they entered middle school, hanging with the girls more and the rivalry with Craig and those guys dissolving for the most part. The girls made other lists over the years, Kyle and Stan ending up not too far from each other, Stan always higher. Kyle suspects they can smell the testosterone or something, the normality. In any case, it made Kyle dateable in the girls’ eyes, which was fine by him. 

Until freshman year, Kyle’s desire to have a girlfriend was mostly derived from wanting someone there for him while he tagged along on Wendy and Stan's dates. He was sick of third-wheeling and sick of feeling like Stan pitied him every time he declined to join them on an outing. Between the ages of 12 and 14, Kyle went on five dates with two different girls _—_ all accompanied by Stan and Wendy’s presence. Two dates with Heidi Turner, before he figured out it was a ploy to piss off Cartman, then three dates with Bebe, though he suspects Bebe going out with him had more to do with her and Wendy wanting a matching set than actually liking him. Their texting tapered off to noncommunication and it was over before a month had passed.

Kyle’s anger was luminous when he got wind of the talk going around, that he couldn’t keep a girlfriend because he was too obsessed with Stan. “Stan _invited_ us to double date. I’m pretty sure it was Wendy’s idea anyway,” he explained to Kenny once. Kenny shrugged, said people like to talk shit, not to listen to them. Kyle agreed, people are dumbasses. What did it matter if the dates were group or solo, it’s not like they really needed privacy for anything. No one was having sex. It was actually sort of nice having Stan there for his first kiss. For as many times as Kyle had teased Stan about vomiting out of nervousness, it all made perfect sense when face to face with Bebe staring at him, batting her eyelashes like that did anything, expecting him to seal the deal. The girls sat on a low wall in the park while Stan and Kyle stood between their knees. Stan and Wendy went for it _—_ her cupping Stan’s face and neck while his thumbs kneaded at her waist. When Kyle got the courage to lean in he was greeted with a wet, open mouth. It was kind of gross, but making out had always seemed gross. He expected the emotional aspect to make up for the physical sensation. It did not. 

Apparently Clyde was pissed that Kyle had dared to go out with his ex. Kyle didn’t think Bebe really counted as Clyde’s ex if she was only dating him for shoe discounts, but his anger about it carried over the entire summer and up to his birthday party in fall of freshman year. Thanks to Kenny _—_ Kyle thanks god for Kenny every day _—_ they had the heads up on Clyde’s plan before they got there. 

The prank, if you could call it that, was to simply dare Stan and Kyle to kiss each other during truth or dare. If they accepted the dare then _ha ha, you’re gay_ , but if they refused then _uh oh, what’s the matter? What do you have to hide?_ In the end it was Stan’s genius idea to do what they did.

Wendy and Stan had taken a break for the summer and failed to rekindle their romance. That would come, in another two months, but Kyle was buoyant from a summer filled with Stan and Kenny and nothing else to distract them. He believed Stan that it would work. His classmates sat cross legged in a circle, taking turns asking the question: truth or dare? Several people had been dared to kiss before their turn _—_ Rebecca and Jimmy, Bradley and Nichole _—_ games like this were designed primarily to facilitate kissing. It wasn’t exactly shocking when Stan’s turn came and Clyde announced with pomp, “I dare you, Stan, to kiss…” Everyone looked at each other in darting glances, they knew what was coming as well as the two of them did. “Kyle. I dare you to kiss Kyle.” 

“Well,” Stan had turned to Kyle and shrugged, biting down a smirk. “Bring it in, dude.”

As Stan leaned in, Kyle had time to think _I never ever ever should have agreed to this._

Stan held up his end of the bargain. He launched at Kyle tongue first, slobbering at his face more than his mouth. The ew’s and groans started quick and Kyle could feel Stan’s chest hitching with laughter as he continued. Kyle wasn’t responding how he was supposed to. He’d promised to get into it, to make as big a joke of it as possible, lurching his tongue in and out of Stan’s mouth in the same sloppy fashion as was done to him. Instead he couldn’t breathe and his cheeks were so hot they hurt. He clumsily moved his lips a little, kept his mouth open, let it happen. His only move of real autonomy was the hand he dug in Stan’s hair, the other cradling his neck. It felt like molten liquid being poured down his throat to burn low in his stomach, verging into painful as it wore on. After about ten seconds Stan pulled back with a smack of his lips, _mmm_ -ing for affect at their classmates’ laughter. 

Stan was right, it did work. Cartman tried to make fun of them for the first few weeks, but for the most part everyone agreed it took balls to do what they did, and the gay jokes evaporated. Kenny wouldn’t shut up about how “epic” it was, how they “totally owned” Clyde and Cartman. There was nothing Kyle could do but laugh and agree. What a hilarious joke. 

Kyle wonders how long he would’ve lived in ignorance of his feelings if it weren’t for the dare. It was confusing. He’d liked girls, he had. They were pretty and nice to talk to _—_ he’d even thought about his wedding before and if there were any girls in his class that would be willing to convert. This didn’t feel like liking someone. For one, it had never been this painful before. It hurt when Stan chose someone else for a group project. It hurt when Stan got back with Wendy, inviting her to sit on his lap while they ate soggy cafeteria french fries. It hurt for the good moments, when Stan put his arm across Kyle’s shoulders as they walked to their lockers, saving a seat for Kyle on the bus for field trips, his fingertips brushing Kyle’s ribs while they slept. Every day was a new realization of how weird they’d always been _—_ he’d always been _—_ only he was too stupid to notice. In time Kyle found that it’s actually not normal to sniff the pillow your best friend slept on because it still smells like him. It’s not normal to search for the scent every time they stand near each other. Paranoia overtook Kyle for several months, convincing him that everyone had always known something integral about himself that he never picked up on. 

Kyle thinks over their friendship, horrified that his carelessness about hiding his jealousy in their earlier years might have given the game away. As a fourteen year old his natural inclination was to overcompensate, calling anyone and everything “faggy” until eventually Stan was the one to tell him to lay off. “It’s just not funny anymore,” he’d said. “People are kinda pissed at you for it. Like, there’s nothing wrong with being gay.” Kyle thought this was rich, considering how their entire world demonstrated the complete opposite. But still, he didn’t want to be accused of being hateful or god forbid, admit that he should be allowed this privilege because of who he is, and never said the word again. 

Reminiscing on this feels ironic as Kyle walks up to the basketball court, overhearing Clyde call Craig and Token “fucking fags” after making a shot. Cartman isn’t there, thank god. Neither is Stan, to his dismay. If Stan flakes on him he’ll have Kenny’s head. 

Token nods at Kyle as he walks up to them. “Where’s Stan?”

Kyle shrugs, gestures for the ball. It both delights and angers Kyle that everyone expects him to know Stan’s whereabouts at any given time. He doesn’t feel like explaining, throws the ball at the hoop. To his surprise, it goes through. 

“Whatever,” Clyde says, not even looking at Kyle. “There’s four of us, let’s just start.”

They look at each other, assessing. Kyle’s not short but he’s not as tall as Token or Craig. 

“I call dibs on Token,” Clyde says, smacking the ball out of Kyle’s hands and dribbling away.

Craig shrugs. “Whatever.”

Kyle doesn’t care either _—_ having Clyde for a teammate is a handicap in itself. They play for twenty minutes, Kyle and Craig trailing 2-5. He suspects Craig might be sabotaging him, shrugging and saying _sorry_ every time he fails to pass the ball to Kyle. Not surprising, Craig is an asshole. Kyle’s jacket is starting to stick to him and he peels it off, throws it on a bench. He planned his outfit poorly, assuming it would be colder than it is. He should’ve worn shorts instead of sweats or bothered to do his hair before leaving home. Now he’s going to have to take off his hat and if he acts like he gives a shit about what his hair looks like they might figure it out. 

This is a stupid train of thought. Logically, Kyle knows this. He keeps his hat on anyway, wiping at sweat trails that drip past his eyebrows. He hasn't decided if/when he wants to come out. Until he’s out of South Park it’s the least of his worries. 

At a quarter to five Stan and Kenny walk up to the court, waving at the rest as they sit on one of the benches. Kyle wants to pause and go over to say hi, but the score is actually tied and Craig seems willing to pass to him now. Kyle is distracted, every spare glance thrown over to the benches, watching Stan and Kenny huddle around Kenny’s phone, laughing at something on the screen. Through no fault of Kyle’s they win, Craig taking a moment to whoop and flip off the other two. 

Kyle jogs over to the benches.The last rays of light are leaving the sky and the floodlights kick on as he stops in front of them. It takes a second for them to look up, Kenny the first to say anything.

“Hey, champ.”

“Hey,” Kyle nods. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry, that was my bad,” Stan says. “I thought we were meeting at 5.”

“Yeah and then I reminded him that you guys don’t usually play after it’s dark.” He nudges Stan who’s texting. “Dumbass.” 

“Are you sober now?” Kyle asks Stan.

Kenny and Stan exchange a look, then chuckle to themselves. 

“Depends on what you need me to do,” Stan says. Craig comes up to them, bouncing the ball off Kyle’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “Clyde wants a rematch.”

Kyle looks at the bench. “Alright, you guys need to split up, who’s going with who?”

Kenny yawns. “I’m gonna sit this one out.”

“Same,” Stan says, not quite meeting Kyle’s eye. 

“Seriously?” Kyle says this only to Stan, though Kenny doesn’t seem offended.

“I’m fucking beat, dude, sorry.”

Clyde walks over. “Craig, what’s up? Is Kyle gonna pussy out?”

“Fuck you,” Kyle says, glancing back for Stan’s reaction. He’s texting again. 

“Well?” Craig asks. Kyle looks at the bench, both their heads hunched over phones. Kyle joins the others on the court, reminding himself to chew Kenny out for this later. 

Kyle loses purposely to make the game go faster, which earns him no allies by the end of it. “It’s not fucking fun if he just lets us win!” Clyde yells at Craig. Kyle doesn’t really care about his bitch fit, just wants to hang with Kenny and Stan and get high to calm the anxiety building in his stomach.

“Ok, I’m done,” Kyle says, breath puffing little clouds into the air. Kenny and Stan look up at him, eyes glazed. Stan watches Kyle put his jacket back on but his mind is clearly elsewhere. “So, um.” Kyle clears his throat. “What do you guys wanna do?”

Kenny shrugs. “I’m good with whatever. What are you guys gonna do?” 

Kyle and Stan share a glance as Token calls over to them. “You guys wanna play _Call of Duty_ at my place?”

“Sure!” Kenny calls back. “You guys?” to Stan and Kyle.

Stan looks at the phone in his palm and says, “I gotta head home.”

“Boo, Stan.” Kenny shoves his hand over Stan’s head, knocking his beanie into his lap. He gets up and walks to the other guys, gesturing at Clyde for the ball to attempt a three pointer. He makes it and whoops. 

“Sorry,” Stan says. “It’s my dad.” He’s putting on the tone that means _this is worse for me than it is for you._ “You can still go with them if you want.” Kyle declines, uses packing as an excuse. Their houses are in opposite directions from the park; if they were alone he’d walk Stan back. If they were alone, Stan might actually tell him what’s wrong. But maybe not. Kyle senses more and more lately that the times Stan needs someone most is when he wants to see Kyle the least. Token’s house is in the right direction so he heads off with the others. 

“Are you actually good, dude?” Kyle asks. 

Stan’s texting with one hand while nodding back at Kyle. “Yeah, yeah, just this stupid stuff. I’ll text you about it later.”

“Am I seeing you tomorrow?” Kyle hates how needy he sounds but the truth is that he is this needy. 

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” He’s blinking at nothing, voice high like he’s lying.

“...You know I’m leaving on Monday, right?”

Stan scoffs. “Yeah dude, you think I forgot that you’re ditching me the whole break?”

“I’m not ditching you—”

“I’m just kidding, dude, calm down. I’ll text you later.” 

Kyle is tempted to extend his hand, maybe for their super-secret-super-best-friend handshake, the one they stopped doing seven years ago because it was “gay.” Letting Stan walk away like this feels doomed somehow, like there’s something he’s missing. Except Stan still seems a little high, so it’s probably just that. He watches the group walk away from him like a fucking loser, only turning around to walk home once they’ve turned a corner. 

* * *

Kyle’s phone says 1:36 AM. His mom had been in and out of his room until 11 PM, declaring upon seeing how much he was taking on their trip that he needed to get rid of half his wardrobe. _There are unfortunate people who need this much more than you, Kyle,_ his mother said, and he couldn’t come up with a counterargument. He pretty much wears the same things everyday anyway. He contemplates whether or not dressing better would put in him Stan’s favor—maybe he wouldn’t look so dorky all the time—or if paying attention to that kind of thing would send up flares. In truth, this line of thinking is optimistic at its core. It assumes that Stan would notice anything about him to begin with. Why the fuck did Kyle kick him out after lunch? He could save time and money by skipping his bachelor’s degree altogether and going straight to getting his PhD in Ruining Own Your Fucking Life Studies. 

The entire afternoon belongs on the _Doesn’t_ list, a dozen points for the various ways Stan rejected his company. This is a dour assessment, Kyle knows, and if anyone other than him could hear his thoughts they’d just laugh— _fucking drama queen_ —but it’s in his best interest to remain pessimistic. The entire break is going to suck, Canada is going to suck, struggling to get his AP homework done with a bunch of 8th graders around is going to suck, and so will the rest of the semester, watching Stan get farther and farther away until they’re completely different people without ever saying a word to each other about it. It’s best to keep his expectations realistic. 

These are the times in which the literal iterations of the lists would be helpful. They existed once, a word document on his computer that he kept open and minimized so he could refer to it after school and throughout the evening. Just a month after its creation, Kyle found Ike at his desk chair looking at something on his computer. He launched at his brother who screamed and closed out the window before running from the room. If Kyle had wondered whether he was ready to tell anyone, the fervent desire to literally murder his brother with his own hands answered the question for him. Kyle’s parents grounded them both—Ike for snooping, Kyle for overreacting—though he didn’t really care as long as he got to go back to his room and check his computer. After a long lecture from his mother, he sunk in his desk chair, fearing that the lists would be up, read, and already laughed at. Kyle stared at his desktop, no windows open. The Word application was open, but the window with the list had been closed. His browser application was open too, a blank google page pulled up. It was just as likely that Ike read it as he closed the window and looked up porn, ignoring it completely. Kyle had no choice but to delete the lists on the off chance that Ike planned to use it against him. Ike never mentioned anything about it, which could’ve meant that he really hadn’t read it, or that it was so strange and disturbing that even Ike was too embarrassed to confront him about it. He vowed never again to commit his feelings or analyses to paper.

Still, Kyle wishes he had the data, or a better memory of the data. There have been plenty of nights spent exactly like this one, where Kyle dreads not only that Stan doesn’t _like_ like him, but he doesn’t like him either, and is just too nice to say it. It’s easy to convince himself of this after a day like today, where Stan couldn’t give two shits that Kyle is leaving and can’t stay sober even just to humor him. 

There are well-tread paths of memory that he relies on in these moments. Weighty, saccharine highlights from the _Does_ list that talk him off the edge of giving up hope completely. Sophomore year, the winter ball, Wendy breaking Stan’s heart two days before. Stan spent the first day whining about how relationships are a sham, love isn’t real, and the second day convincing Kyle to be his date to the dance. 

“Just try selling your tickets to someone else,” Kyle had said, sure that any minute Stan would notice his transformation from human to tomato.

“Everybody already bought their tickets. I’m gonna lose like $80 on this.” 

“Stan, come on—”

“It’s just as friends!”

Kyle imploded, sputtering. “Obviously, dude, I fucking know—”

“Then what’s the problem?”

In Kyle’s memory Stan fixes him with a stare that’s asking for something. His exact response is lost, but Kyle distinctly remembers Stan’s hissed _fuck yes!_ and his arms wrapping around Kyle’s neck in a brief but hard hug. 

Stan walked to Kyle’s, waiting for Kenny to pick them up with his date, a junior girl who was said to put out. As soon as Kyle opened the door he knew he’d made a mistake. Stan was in one of Randy’s blazers, black pants—new—with a pink carnation on his lapel. His cheeks were pinked from the cold walk over and his hair was swept in an odd way like he’d been running. He was chewing his lip as he waited at the door, and his mouth stretched into the sweetest smile as soon as he saw Kyle. The smile, however, was quickly replaced by Stan’s hand covering his mouth as he doubled over in laughter.

Kyle’s bar mitzvah suit unfortunately still fit him better than it ought to, just a little short around the ankles, and it was pretty much the only formal clothing he had. His mom wouldn’t let him take off the tie while he was in the house and Kyle felt like he was choking.

Kyle glowered. “If you don’t stop laughing I’m not going.”

“I’m sorry,” Stan clapped a hand on his shoulder, stifling his laughter. “I’m sorry. Seriously. I just really didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too.” It was 30 degrees and Stan was visibly shivering. “Dude, didn’t you bring a coat or something?”

“Uh, no.” He fussed with his hair, teeth chattering a little. “I had to get out of there pretty fast, I guess I forgot.”

“Kyle?” Sheila called from upstairs. “Is that Stanley?”

“Uh oh,” Stan said, stepping inside. 

“Stay right there,” she yelled. “I’m getting my camera!”

They posed by the stairs, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, making Kyle’s cuffs slide up to his elbows. Maybe not as well-fitting as he thought. Kyle blushed through Sheila’s every comment about how adorable they were, thankful for his father’s indifference and refusal to come ogle them too. Ike snickered throughout the entire thing, side-eyeing them from his video game. Kyle was already paranoid about Ike—he thought if any of them suspected, it was him. His teasing had always walked the razor thin line between taunting and truthful. Kyle was overjoyed to hear Kenny’s honk at the curb. Stan borrowed one of Kyle’s father’s coats, dark brown wool that matched his outfit. Kyle wore his orange parka over his suit, flipping Kenny off as they got in the car before the laughter even started. 

Park High is a 9 minute, 2.6 mile drive from Kyle’s house. Kenny, the driver, was plastered for all 2.6 miles and almost ended their lives approximately four separate times on the way over. Stan looked green as they crawled from the back of the beat-up Taurus, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. Kyle wanted to linger in the parking lot, delay the humiliation of being seen by everyone they know, but Kenny winked at them, said he had plans, and trotted on ahead. Stan turned around to grab Kyle by the wrist, yanking him toward the entrance. Kyle thought he waited a breath longer than usual to let go. The memory isn’t clear enough to substantiate the claim. 

Despite his mother’s assumption, there was no coat room, everyone relegated into draping their jackets and coats over the bleachers on the east side of the gym. Kenny disappeared into the crowd with his date as Kyle and Stan took their seats at the top of the bleachers. 

Kenny said the punch would be spiked, so Kyle was surprised when Stan produced a flask from his inner pocket and took a swig. He offered it to Kyle as he swallowed. At that point in their adolescence, drinking was still a relative novelty. All elements of teenage rebellion were exciting, though Kyle did take a second to wonder if he should really lower his inhibitions with this much proximity to Stan. _Who knows_ , something inside him said. _His guard will be down too._ He took a sip from the flask and winced as it burned down his throat. Stan laughed and bumped their shoulders together. “Atta boy,” he’d said.

They finished the rest of the flask from the comfort of their perch, commenting on their classmates dancing and milling around below. Wendy came after a half hour with her friends, dressed in something sparkling and pale pink. Stan didn’t say anything about her arrival, so Kyle didn’t either, though he watched Stan’s eyes for signs that he was watching her, hurting. The reasons for their breakup had been vague. She wanted space, he was both too invested and not committed enough. Kyle was secretly overjoyed at the announcement, and subsequently plagued with guilt after seeing how sad Stan was the day after. The guilt washed happily away as the alcohol wound its way through Kyle’s blood stream, and after thirty minutes they were hanging off each other, laughing at the pisspoor dancing skills of the students of Park High. 

“Come on,” Stan said, standing up suddenly so that Kyle’s head dropped from his shoulder. “Let’s go outside.”

“Outside?” Kyle was aware of how drunk he sounded, how little he cared. 

“Yeah, dude. I’ve got something.”

It was freezing, Kyle regretted leaving his parka the second the air hit his face, but to say anything about it might change the trajectory of the evening and whatever Stan had planned. They headed to the side of the gym, passing the goth kids smoking cigarettes and bemoaning the entire event. Kyle wanted to hassle them, _why did you even fucking come if you’re just going to complain?_ But he was really the last person who should speak on decrying things one is secretly drawn to. 

When they found a spot in the shadows, Stan looked around before pulling a joint and lighter from his back pocket.

“Dude,” Kyle laughed. “Are you the new Kenny?”

“Psh. As if. Who do you think I got this stuff from?”

This was the first time Kyle ever got high. He’d watched Stan, Kenny, and a few others partake at various functions over the last year, but he felt it was safer to observe before taking the plunge and work out whether he could trust himself to imbibe. 

Stan coached him, holding the joint up to Kyle’s mouth as he instructed him on the proper technique for a good hit. The filter hit his teeth as Stan slotted it between his lips. 

“Just breathe in and then hold it for ten seconds.”

Stan’s fingertips were millimeters from Kyle’s mouth, side of his palm brushing against a frozen cheek.

Kyle burst into a coughing fit half a second after he inhaled. Stan laughed until Kyle got it right, then they took turns with it, the joint staying in Stan’s hand the whole time. He’s not sure why Stan never handed it to him, or why he didn’t ask him to, either. 

Kyle’s hearing focused like a laser and he thought he could catch individual conversations from inside the gym like they were standing next to him. _Oh yeah, that’s the super hearing,_ Stan said. _All your senses get heightened, it’s so sick._ Kyle agreed, every detail of his surroundings zooming into crystal clarity then fading into blurriness as his attention went elsewhere. It was also the first time Kyle had ever been cross faded. He didn’t particularly like the way it made him sway on his feet and the world tilt back and forth, like he was on a cruiseliner in the middle of the ocean. Stan seemed happy though, laughing about something Kenny had said in the car. Kyle did his best to pay attention but distraction was overwhelming each time Stan brought the joint to his mouth. A pale stripe across three of Stan’s fingers from where he’d pressed his hand against an oven rack when they were 12. Kyle didn’t think Stan had a single scar he didn’t know the meaning of. They were just like that. Best friends, super best friends, so close he could probably hear his heart beat just then. Super hearing was fucking amazing.

“Dude, you’re like, shaking.”

“Sorry,” Kyle said. “It’s fucking cold.”

“Do you want to go back in?”

“No.”

Stan smirked. “Ok.” He put the joint between his lips, speaking around it. “Stay still a second.”

Kyle did as he was told, straightening his arms against his sides. Stan brought a hand to each arm and rubbed from shoulder to elbow over the fabric in quick motions. Kyle let out a surprised _ah_ and they laughed, eyeing each other. 

“It’s like I’m a frozen puppy and you’re rubbing me back to life,” Kyle said. 

Stan chuckled. He put on a drill sergeant voice, joint hanging from the corner of his mouth. “ _Don’t die on me, soldier!_ ” 

“I won’t.” Kyle closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on the feeling alone, but it was hard to balance without literally keeping track of the ground beneath him. He stared at Stan’s shoes. He’d been there when Stan bought them—Clyde was behind the register and Kyle thought he might have overcharged Stan on purpose. 

“Ok,” Stan took his hands back and relit the joint, hardly any left. He gave Kyle another drag then said, “You do me.”

Kyle returned the gesture, unsure where to look as he did. Stan looked straight ahead at Kyle, clearly thinking something but not saying anything. It looked mostly like he was about to laugh. He took two more drags off the joint before stubbing it out on the wall and letting it fall to the ground. 

Kyle rested his hands at Stan’s elbows, pulling on his arms that flopped like jello. Kyle pressed his thumbs into the inside juncture, daring himself to use inebriation as an excuse.

“Warm yet?” he asked.

Stan shrugged. “Warm as I’m gonna be.”

Kyle always thought this was when something that didn’t happen should’ve happened. Instead Kenny and his date rounded the corner, the sound of rubber stopping short on asphalt echoing against the wall. 

“Oh, hey,” Kenny said. “‘Sup.”

Stan turned like he’d been expecting him. “Oh hey dude. Hi, Angie.”

The girl shrugged her coat closer around her neck and waved.

“Want us to clear out?” Stan asked.

“Um,” Kenny looked at Angie, her eyes screaming _yes!_ “I mean, you don’t _have_ to, but—”

“No worries,” Stan said, nodding at Kyle to follow. “We’re gonna head back in anyway.”

Kyle was luckily too faded to be particularly devastated at the time. He was still with Stan, and at least it was warm inside. They climbed back up the bleachers and said nothing for fifteen minutes, watching their classmates filter in and out of focus. 

Stan flicked Kyle’s knee. “Dude it’s kinda lame in here, do you wanna bail?” 

Either the drunkenness or the high was fading, Kyle couldn’t tell which. Returning to the cold just after having thawed was actually painful, and without a hat or gloves the parka wasn’t enough. He wanted to be less sober, still uncaring—about the cold and the company. He wasn’t often nervous around Stan, even when it was just the two of them alone in Kyle’s bed, and his present jitteriness left him feeling disadvantaged somehow.

“You know what I mean?”

“Mhmm.” Kyle didn’t know what Stan meant, he hadn’t been listening at all.

“It’s like, he’s just getting worked up about a fight that hasn’t even happened yet. It’s so fucking annoying.”

Right. Shelly coming to visit for winter break in the morning. Stan was upset that he couldn’t sleep over at Kyle’s. 

“It’ll be alright dude,” Kyle said, weaving into Stan’s path so the sides of their shoes brushed. “Things always work out in the end.”

Stan furrowed his brow and smirked, bemused. Before Kyle could ask what, Stan threw an arm around his shoulder, play-choking him for a moment. 

“You’re really funny when you’re high,” he said. They were pretty much the same height, Stan just slouched more. Kyle reached up to grab onto Stan’s sleeve hanging over his shoulder. He knew it was bold, but Stan didn’t acknowledge it. 

Kyle scoffed. “What does that mean? How?”

“I don’t know. You’re just like,” a glance at Kyle, eyes narrowed. “So calm.”

“Am I? I seem calm?” He did not feel calm.

“Yeah,” Stan laughed. “I mean, I thought you were going to bitch the entire time we were there.”

“Fuck you.” Kyle shrugged Stan’s arm off his shoulder and immediately regretted it. He was still smiling.

“I had to beg you to come, dude. I was bracing myself.”

“Well. You’re welcome? I guess?”

Stan weaved into Kyle’s path this time, their shoulders bumping. “Seriously dude, thanks for coming with me.”

“We probably could’ve just stayed home and had the same amount of fun.” He’s not sure why he said this. It was bull shit. 

“Still,” Stan said.

They’d made it to the start of Kyle’s block. He thought he must still be drunk because he usually didn’t let himself feel this maudlin about his situation. He went with a platonic friend to a shitty school dance where they got drunk and high and stood in the freezing cold. There was nothing promised. 

“I’m sorry you got dumped,” Kyle said, and wanted to hit himself as soon as he realized what an asshole he was being.

Stan just laughed. “Whatever. Fuck her. I’m glad we didn’t go together. This was way more fun.”

Kyle probably looked like a pig in shit. His memory is kind and only recalls Stan’s animated face as he tried to get in an anecdote about Cartman making a fool of himself during gym before they got to the door. 

They walked up the steps and Kyle took his time digging around in his pockets for his keys. Stan leaned his head against the doorframe, just beneath the mezuzah. 

“Well,” Stan drawled as Kyle pretended for the third time that he hadn’t felt his keychain in his left coat pocket. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Kyle froze with his hand around the keys.

“You know,” Stan lurched forward and then just as quickly back. He cocked his head, doing an impression of someone Kyle couldn’t recognize. Stan was very, very drunk. “A little nightcap?”

“Um,” Kyle said, aware that he was botching this. “What?”

“I’m just kidding,” Stan straightened up with a slack smile. “I am a gentleman, after all.”

Kyle had put the key in the door but not turned it when Stan grabbed his free hand, bowed dramatically and kissed his knuckles. The porch light was on, Stan could probably see what color Kyle’s face turned, but he dropped his hand and hopped over the steps onto the concrete driveway.

“See you, dude!” He called with a wave before turning and heading back down the street. 

Kyle called after him, aware that every single neighbor would hear how flustered he was.

“Are you ok walking back? I can probably get my mom to drive you!”

Stan called back, “I’m good,” voice far enough to sound distorted, or like someone else entirely.

The problem is that every time Kyle conjures this memory, hairline fractures turn to crumbling corners, and its corruption furthers. He used to be able to recall the anecdote about Cartman, and there was something Stan said to him before rubbing his arms that had made him blush. The finer details decay upon each review and inverses come to mind again, the more he needs this memory the cloudier it gets. It would be easy, he thinks, to conjure with clarity the moment Stan told him, just two weeks later, that he and Wendy were back together. Kyle avoids remembering it because he was painfully transparent in his opposition, as he was in his excitement when they broke up again a month after that—this time for good. It’s another thing among many things he needs to wean himself off of. 

At 1:47 AM Stan texts Kyle a gaming-related variation of the Bad Luck Brian meme. This bodes well. When Stan is really sad he usually sends links to Reddit conspiracy theories. 

_LOL,_ Kyle sends back with an emoji. Then, _doing ok?_

He waits thirty minutes for a response that doesn’t come. It’s fine. He probably fell asleep. It’s fine.


	2. Sunday

Sheila is so abnormally calm about this trip that Kyle is starting to worry. A typical Broflovski vacation includes a trip to CVS, to Target, the post office, the barber’s, four trips to Walmart, a carpet steaming and closet reorganization—all within a 16-hour period prior to departure. Today Kyle’s mom is having brunch with friends while his father watches a marathon of action movies on TV over some beer, Ike upstairs doing whatever he does alone in his room. Kyle offered to help his mom with any chores she might have, but she said everything was taken care of and to actually try relaxing a little. Kyle’s parents have an uncanny knack for pointing out all of Kyle's flaws that were created specifically by their own parenting. 

He stays in his room watching YouTube until noon, when he decides to clean out his backpack and toss old paperwork. He gets an email from school that grades are up—mostly As and a B- in AP Psychology. Kyle doesn’t have qualms about arguing his grades, but this time he knows he deserves the B. The idea of senioritis seemed absurd to Kyle in previous years, so his draining motivation with each new school week was an unwelcome and unprepared-for challenge. He opens Facebook and scrolls past Christmas-related memes and photos of classmates with family. Nestled among the wholesome content—including Craig’s aunt posting a photo of a birthday cake for Jesus on his wall—was a photo of Stan. Kyle almost scrolled past it until his brain connected the out of focus colors of the beanie as blue and red. 

Kenny had posted it, a large cloud of smoke in front of Stan’s flash-lit and scrunched up face. The caption read: wow its so foggy tonite 

It was posted at 2:16 AM that morning. So he hadn’t fallen asleep. Kyle is accustomed to flashes of jealousy clouding his judgment but he’s pretty sure getting high with someone instead of answering a text from your concerned best friend is kind of fucked up. Rude at the very least. This is not the first time Kyle has wondered over the last six months if maybe he isn’t Stan’s best friend, but that Kenny is. They’re all three friends, it shouldn’t matter so much to Kyle, especially given how Kenny is even more accommodating to Kyle when it comes to his tirades and tantrums than Stan is. The title of ‘best friend’ is meaningful to Kyle primarily in the way that it’s the most he can be to Stan if he can’t be anything else. _God you’re pathetic_ , he thinks and takes out his phone to text Stan.

_what time are u coming over today?_

Stan’s reply not a minute later: _maybe like 3?_

Kyle tries not to sound too eager in his response and goes to take a shower. Stan always gives him a hard time about having “curly privilege,” meaning that no matter how long he goes without washing his hair it rarely looks greasy. Kyle has pointed out that if Stan hates having greasy hair so much he might try showering more often, but this was not received well. The steam rising from the spray can make Kyle feel like he’s suffocating, but today it just feels warm. He’s always been over-reactive to Stan. Nothing happened, no one was scorned, nothing to take personally. He’ll see him in a little over an hour and they’ll talk and maybe play a video game. They’re leaving too early for Stan to stay over but it’ll be enough. Kyle beats off in anticipation of seeing him, theorizing that it’ll be easier to be around Stan if his libido is semi-depleted. Ike knocks on the door twelve times in a row just after he’s finished, and Kyle gets out to go to his room, quickly, as to avoid Ike’s accusations that he was doing exactly what he was doing. 

Kyle shivers from water dripping onto his neck, wracked with indecision about what shirt he should wear. _It really doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself. This is the same shit he had to sit through before Stan went on dates with Wendy, assuring Stan that she wouldn’t like him any less whether he wore a polo or a button up. Only this time it’s not because Stan will love him no matter what, but because Kyle is his friend, a guy, and he won’t notice either way. He settles for a plain black t-shirt when his phone pings.

From Stan, _sorry itll be more like 4_

Kyle refuses to let this annoy him. If he allows the irritation to seep in, it will take hold of Kyle until he has argued with Stan about the matter 6 different ways in his head before he even arrives. He admitted this once to Stan, who was less than sympathetic. _You can’t get pissed at me for something I didn’t even say_ , he answered. And then, _why am I always such a dick in your head?_ It felt like Stan was saying everything but _stop being crazy._ Kyle didn’t think he was just being crazy. That was reductive. Not _crazy_ crazy, anyway. Just concerned. He grabbed his phone and went downstairs to find someone else to argue with. 

His mother was back and starting something on the stove. “Oh, Kyle, is Stanley staying for dinner?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.” He fucking better be. 

“I’ll need more potatoes then. Your little friend has quite the appetite.”

Kyle visibly rolls his eyes and goes to the living room. His dad hasn’t moved in hours, though he seems placid and calm. Kyle sits on the other end of the couch and tries to bring himself up to speed on the plot of _2 Fast 2 Furious_. To his surprise, the distraction works, and he remembers more of the film than he thought he did. They’d all seen it together—Cartman included—when Kyle only had the vaguest inkling that the way the other three were responding to the women on screen was not how he was feeling, at all. He hadn’t felt that way about the men either—muscles bursting out of shirts, bald or with hair the same color as their skin—so it didn’t read as a red flag at the time. The happy feeling that made him want to laugh every time Stan leaned over and whispered into his ear should have been. 

Kyle turns to see his father snoring with his head lolled back, mouth open. 3:58 PM. He sits through two more rounds of commercials before it’s 4:21 and his phone dings with a text.

_hey, im really sorry about today but i dont think i can make it. im still helping my dad with something and its gonna be a while_

Kyle sends back _seriously?_ before he can stop himself.

_im really sorry. maybe i can see u tomorrow morning?_

_we’re leaving for the airport at 4:30am._

Stan, _fuck_

Kyle doesn’t respond. It’s the wisest course of action, he’ll only say something he doesn't mean and he’ll have to apologize later and act like he wasn’t that angry. He is very, very angry. But he knows this is a convenient emotion and one he will always choose over the truer and more hopeless feelings that linger in the pit of his stomach, waiting until it’s quiet and he’s alone to flower. 

When the credits are rolling Stan texts, _can i call u before u leave?_

Kyle waits five minutes then says, _if you want_

_cool. i’ll call u before bed :)_

Kyle wants to let this go but he’s still mad and Stan’s friendliness is just irritating. He sends back, _what r u doing w/ ur dad?_

_its really stupid i’ll tell u tonite_

Kyle’s mom almost gives him an aneurysm when she asks where Stan is at dinner then declares, “Oh, but I made extra latkes!” as if she hadn’t noticed the absence of an extra person in her house for the last two hours. Kyle’s appetite is swallowed by his disappointment. He shovels in his food without tasting (or chewing) much of it, volunteering to clean up the kitchen while the others are still eating as an excuse to be alone. He plays games on his phone while sitting through an episode of _60 Minutes_ with his parents then excuses himself to his room to sleep. His mother asks him no less than three times before he makes it up the stairs if he’s excited for the trip, grumbling too much for her liking until he says yes, he is excited. Though if it weren’t for the trip it wouldn’t matter that Stan didn’t come see him because he wouldn’t be going anywhere and he could spend his winter break like he always does, filling time between hanging out with Stan. 

He watches more YouTube as the night wears on. He promised his mom he’d be asleep by 9:30 and he plans to stick to it. He doesn’t want to spend a day of traveling feeling more exhausted and unhappy than he already is. At 8:30 he texts Stan to tell him when he’ll be going to sleep, asks that he calls him by 9. No response. At 9:02 he texts Stan again. No response. Again at 9:14. No response. _What the fuck is his dad making him do?_ There’s a part of him that’s worried something might be wrong but he won’t go there, can’t afford Stan the benefit of the doubt this easily. If his bullshit with Kenny yesterday is anything to go on, Stan is probably high or wasted and unaware that his phone is even buzzing. His dad probably isn’t even home. Kyle’s stomach twists in on itself as he watches the minutes tick by on his monitor. The alarm he set for himself goes off at 9:30 and he gets into pajamas, turns off the light and crawls under the covers.

He sends, _hello? are you there?_

9:38. Nothing. In a moment of desperation he calls Stan, then hangs up when he gets voicemail, feeling foolish for it already. Kyle can imagine him in an hour finally picking up his phone and seeing the wall of notifications from Kyle. No wonder Stan’s avoiding him when he’s doing the same things that Stan used to bitch at Wendy for. The theory about Kenny being Stan’s new best friend seems glaringly true now. How stupid can he get?

_Ok i have to go to sleep now. Guess i’ll talk to you when im back._

Kyle plugs his phone into the charger and sets it aside. He hesitates on whether or not to leave the sound on. He decides against it. If Stan really wants to reach him, he should learn to respect Kyle’s time. 

He can’t sleep. The sadness he’d been keeping at bay floods in with the darkness. It’s self-pitying and useless, but who gives a fuck. Literally no one. This shouldn’t surprise him.

If Kyle is honest with himself, their lives have been diverging for years. Stan has had more in common with Kenny than anyone else in town since the eighth grade, if you combined his family’s reputation and economic status. When Stan was 13, his father lost his job and drove trucks for a while, a nice reprieve for them all to have Randy sleeping in motels five nights a week. But of course he got fired from that too, which led to on-again-off-again runs of unemployment mixed in with freelance and odd jobs while Stan’s mom got a job at a foot spa. They got to keep their house—barely, according to Stan—but they’re only ever one paycheck away from bankruptcy. Kyle’s never really sure if things are better or worse than Stan makes them seem. His story changes every other week from _we’re starving and all going to kill each other_ to _everything’s fine dude, it’s always fine stop worrying._

They might have more money if Stan’s dickhead father didn’t spend it all on liquor and beer secreted away in a garage freezer, Kyle thinks. Until this summer Stan regularly worked part time as a bag boy at the grocery store, but supposedly had “enough” money saved up by August and quit. Kyle’s not really sure how he’s paying for the weed or anything else Kenny gets him. Kyle brought up the Marshes’ situation once at dinner, where Sheila scolded her husband for making an off-color remark about how they might be making ends meet. People used to say the same thing about Kenny’s mom and even Kenny himself, if you listened to Cartman. Still, his mother didn’t seem too upset about it. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she thought he was wrong. 

There was actually a time when Randy was friends with Kyle’s dad, but after one too many humiliating public incidents his father began pretending they’d never been close, just acquaintances out of courtesy to their sons’ friendship. It’s bullshit. Kyle hates Randy more than anyone, but they don’t have to hitch themselves up on their high horses and be dicks about it. That’s a lie though, probably, about how much he hates Stan’s dad. No one in the world hates Randy Marsh like his son. Which is why it’s so confusing when Stan defends him, or ditches Kyle for him, or lets his dad treat him like a fucking dog without saying a word. His excuse is usually that it’s easier to just let it go. _In exchange for what?_ Kyle always wants to ask. The implied answer is, _everything Stan loves. Himself. Me._

Something deeply sentimental passes through Kyle and he turns his phone sound back on, though Stan hasn’t responded. He would hate to know how much Kyle is thinking about him, how many opinions he has on Stan’s life. Kyle chides himself for how selfish his affection manifests. Controlling him isn’t loving him. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, that’s his right. _Remember that it’s better this way._ When Kyle can’t unclench his jaw he comforts himself that in reality Stan is letting him go gently. _It could be so much worse._ He falls asleep to the sound of his own breathing.

* * *

It starts as the soundtrack to a carousel he’s riding, changing from “Pop Goes the Weasel” to the plucky tones of a marimba. He’s not sure how long it goes on until his brain jolts awake with the realization that his phone has been ringing for a while. He blinks his eyes at the bright screen, struggling to open them at all. A drop of dread plunks into his gut as he realizes who’s calling. 

Putting the phone to his face he’s afraid to speak. “Hello?”

The sound on the other end is hardly words, barely his name.

“Stan? Are you ok? What’s going on?” He sat up at some point and now he stares at his gray bed sheets, trying to make sense of the garbled and choked noises.

“I—Can.” Stan is taking heaving gulps of air between each word, sobbing out syllables at a time. “I. Can’t.”

“Stan? Please talk to me, you’re scaring me.”

“Please come here.”

Now that he’s managed a full sentence, Kyle’s not sure what to say back.

“To your house?”

“Please.” 

Kyle’s mind is running wild with images of carnage laid all around Stan. Is he bleeding out? Where are his parents? 

“What’s happening, Stan?”

Coughing through tears. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! What’s happening? Talk to me. Now.”

“It’s.” Stan’s breath shudders around a whimper that he quickly presses down. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

This is where Kyle usually gets angry and starts hassling Stan about jerking him around, waking him up, being cryptic and weird. Not tonight. In the dark he can ask Stan with a broken voice of his own to please tell him what’s happening. That he’s scared.

After a minute Stan asks, “Can you please. Come here.”

“Yeah, I mean.” Kyle looks at the time. 1:54 AM. “Are you sure you don’t want to come here?”

“I can’t. Move.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. I just.” The sound muffles and Kyle waits for Stan’s voice to return. “I can’t. Breathe.”

“Ok, ok I’m coming. Just. Um. Stay where you are. I’ll be like ten minutes.”

“Ok.”

“You’ll be ok.” This is a pathetically insufficient thing to say. He doesn’t have anything else. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Can you stay on the phone?”

“Oh. Um. Are you sure?” Kyle’s only way out of the house is to be completely silent as he exits.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Sniffling sounds, like he’s calming down. “Just don’t hang up. Please.”

Kyle agrees and tries to figure out what to bring. He throws on clothes then grabs his phone and backpack, closing his bedroom door. In the kitchen he stuffs his bag with water bottles, snack foods, a loaf of bread and a half-eaten jar of nutella. He wishes he could just ask Stan what he needs, but even if it wouldn’t wake his parents Stan doesn’t seem able to articulate much of anything. Muffled sound comes from his phone speaker and he clicks the volume down while it’s still in his pocket. His hands are shaking before he even makes it out into the cold, trudging through a fine layer of snow that covers the pavement. 

A block away from home Kyle brings his phone to his ear.

“You still there?”

Stan’s voice is small. “Yeah.” 

“I’m rounding the corner on Pine.”

He keeps up this narration, updating Stan every time he crosses a street or makes a turn. Stan doesn’t say anything, just breathes back in hitches. Kyle’s not even cold by the time Stan’s house comes into view. 

“Ok,” Kyle says, letting himself through the gate to the backyard. “Should I let myself in?”

“Yeah. Just be quiet.” There’s a light on in Stan’s parents’ room. He can hear Randy’s voice from here.

“You’re in your room, right?” Kyle asks. Stan hums. “I’m gonna hang up. I’ll be there in a second.”

Stan’s ok is whispered and Kyle pockets his phone. He knows where the Marshes keep their spare key and unlocks the sliding glass door, opening it just enough to fit through. 

Kyle jumps out of skin as the click of the door coincides with the sound of something shattering upstairs. Then a dull, deafening sound that makes the picture frames shake. Kyle is afraid to go up, but Stan’s there, and he can’t make any noise to ask him to come down. 

Despite being as far from their bedroom as one can be in the house, Kyle hears Stan’s parents as clearly as if they were standing beside him. 

To his surprise, Sharon is the one he hears more. _I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU. YOU KNOW THAT, RIGHT? I HAVE EVERY RIGHT. EVERY FUCKING RIGHT._

Then Randy, _OH REALLY? REALLY?_ Something heavy hits a wall. 

_YEAH, REALLY. BE GLAD I DON’T PUT A FUCKING BULLET IN YOUR HEAD WHILE YOU SLEEP YOU MOTHERFUCKER._

_YOU BETTER FUCKING WATCH YOURSELF._

_OH YEAH?_

Sounds Kyle can’t place. His heart is beating faster than he knew it could as he inches along the wall to the stairs. Six successive sounds of crashing, then Sharon wailing _I hate you I hate you I hate you_

At the top of the stairs Kyle takes a breath, Stan’s door in sight. Shadows pass under the door of the master bedroom, pacing and more screaming from the other side. Kyle uses their arguing to jog to Stan’s door, open and close it behind him with shaking breath. 

He doesn’t even see Stan at first. He’s sitting halfway inside his shallow laundry basket in the closet, knees tucked up close to his face. 

“Stan?” Kyle whispers. He steps closer and kneels before him in the dim gray light. More thumps from down the hall. He can’t see Stan’s face clearly but his shoulders are hitching up and down. “Can I come in?” There’s enough movement to discern a nod, and Kyle closes the closet door behind him. 

He squeezes under Stan’s hanging clothes to sit on a pile of shoes. He turns on his phone flashlight and shines it at the wall behind him, dulled white light filling the tight space. 

“Hey,” he says, Stan more visible now. His eyes are almost puffed shut, red and raw. 

“Hi,” Stan chokes back.

“Are you ok?” 

Before he answers, a door slams open and footsteps thunder down the hall. Kyle expects to be dead in a few seconds but the footsteps glide past Stan’s room and down the stairs. 

_GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME_

_DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME WHILE I’M FUCKING TALKING TO YOU_

Something else breaks and Kyle flinches at the sound.

He puts a hand on Stan’s arm. “We need to get out of here.”

“How?”

The fight continues downstairs, furniture moving around like a tornado ripping through the house.

“Did you call someone?” Kyle asks.

“Yeah, you.”

“I meant the police. Have you called them?”

“No.”

“Stan,” he huffs. He picks up his phone to dial 911. 

“Please don’t.” Stan grabs Kyle’s hand and the phone, pulling. “Don’t. Please don’t call them.”

“Why not?!”

“We can’t afford it. Please. If he goes to jail we’re fucked. Please.”

His hand is crushing Kyle’s. Stan’s scaring him. All of this is scaring him. He woke up to a nightmare and now they’re trapped. 

“Why hasn’t anyone else called the police?” Kyle asks, waiting for a new round of shouting to subside.

“Nobody gives a shit.”

“What?”

Stan rubs his eyes in a crushing gesture that Kyle thinks must hurt. He lolls his head back against the wall and blinks his eyes. His face is moving too slowly.

The penny drops. “Are you drunk?” Kyle asks.

Stan hides his face again. “I just wanted to sleep.” He starts to weep. “I can never fucking sleep.” 

Sympathy and panic struggle against each other for Kyle’s attention. His mind races, interrupted by visions of Randy barging in with a gun, every shout and bang sounding like more and more of an imminent threat. He should have never let Stan convince him to come here. 

“We have to leave. We can’t stay here.”

Stan says nothing.

“I’m serious. We need to get out of here.”

“Ok,” Stan says after a minute. The screaming continues. Kyle doesn’t want to know how Randy and Sharon would react to their dysfunction having a new witness. 

“Let’s just.” Kyle swallows. This isn’t real. None of this feels real. “We’ll wait until they calm down and then I’ll take you to my place.”

Stan nods against his knees and his breath starts to pick up. Kyle can hardly look at him like this. He knows what he wants to do and what he should do. He opts for putting a hand on Stan’s arm and holding on tight enough to hurt him. He scoots closer so their backs are against the wall, arms pressed side by side. He adjusts his grip to grab onto Stan’s wrist. They wait. It doesn’t stop. Stan is still except for his shaking, until he jerks his arm so that Kyle’s hand slips into his palm. Kyle stays rigid as Stan slots their fingers together. He’ll lose circulation in his hand if Stan keeps holding so tight but the pain is grounding in a comforting way. _Just wait_ , Kyle tells himself. _Just wait it out. It’ll be ok._ He doesn’t believe himself, startling and stopping himself from crying every time there’s a new sound closer to Stan’s room. He leans his head against Stan’s, whispers for them both, “It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok.”

Half an hour later someone runs up the stairs and down the hall, then back again after a minute or two. The front door slams shut and Randy is screaming. A car honks over the sound and then it peels away, revving as it goes. Silence. Kyle is afraid to feel relieved, afraid that he’ll be wrong. 

He turns to Stan, squeezes his hand a few times. “Are you ok?”

Stan barely seems conscious, only humming in response.

Kyle chokes off a scream when Stan’s door explodes with sound. 

_STAN_

Randy is pounding at the door, relentless.

_STAN GET THE FUCK OUT HERE RIGHT NOW_

Kyle fumbles for his phone and turns off the flashlight. The door knob rattles. How long until he’s inside the room?

_STAN_

Pound. 

_STAN_

Pound.

_STAN YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT COME OUT HERE OR I SWEAR TO GOD_

Kyle wraps his arms around Stan in the dark, buries his face against his hair. He can’t stop crying. Neither can Stan. This is it. This is it. This is it. 

One final slam on the door followed by the sound of crackling wood. Kyle can’t breathe. Long seconds followed by a long minute then several long minutes. The sound of the toilet flushing in the hall, then the master bedroom door shutting softly. 

They stay how they are for a while, Kyle counting seconds then losing track and starting over. Stan’s breathing gets quick and shallow and Kyle pulls back, daring to turn the flashlight back on.

Stan is pale and panting.

“Fuck, are you ok?”

“I feel sick.”

Kyle nods and steels himself, rising to his feet. He opens the closet door in complete silence, looking out at the room. Dim light filters in from the streetlights through the curtains. The hallway is dark under the door. A few inches from the floor, the wood of the door protrudes out and Kyle realizes the final blast was Randy’s foot crashing through. It didn’t make a hole, luckily, and Kyle steps into the room with a quiet sigh. He turns around to Stan who’s slumped over. Kyle flashes the light at him. There’s sweat beading on his forehead.

“Can you stand?”

Stan whines low. “I don’t know.”

Kyle grabs his hand to haul him up and they creep over to Stan’s bed. Moments after Kyle sits him on the edge, Stan doubles over and pukes into the trashcan by his bedside. He rubs Stans back as he heaves, eyes darting to the door for signs of life. 

“Is your dad asleep?” 

Stan coughs and spits into the trash. “I don’t know. Probably.” Stan isn’t whispering and it makes Kyle nervous. He’s developing a pain between his shoulders and neck and his jaw hurts from clenching it shut. He gets up to grab water from his backpack and forces Stan to drink half a bottle. It initiates another round of vomiting but Kyle rations that this is a good thing. The sooner Stan’s sober the sooner they can leave. 

Around 3AM Kyle asks Stan if he’s ready to go.

Stan groans. His torso is flopped back against his pillows, legs hanging off the side of the bed. “No,” he says after a moment.

Kyle sighs. Randy hasn’t shown any signs of waking but Kyle doesn’t believe it yet. 

“Dude, we can’t stay here.”

“It’ll be ok,” Stan mumbles into the pillow.

“Stan. Come on.”

“I can’t.”

“Stan?”

He sounds like he’s crying but there are no tears. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t. Everything is spinning. I feel so fucking sick.”

Kyle puts a tentative hand on Stan’s forehead. Damp and hot. He pours some water onto a shirt sitting on the end of Stan’s bed and brings it over.

“Here,” he says, but Stan doesn’t move so he touches the wet cloth to Stan’s forehead. Stan makes a sound at the contact but it doesn’t seem like pain, so Kyle swipes along his face to at least get the sweat off. He asks Stan how much he drank but he doesn’t know, just says he finished a bottle. No mention of how full it was to begin with.

Kyle thinks Stan has fallen asleep until he asks, “Do you have to leave?”

Kyle shakes his head. “No.” Stan is still trembling in spurts. It has occurred to Kyle that Stan could have alcohol poisoning. He thinks his tolerance is probably too high for that, but for how much he’s been crying, Stan could be dehydrated to a damaging extent. Everything suddenly feels like Kyle’s fault. How he let Stan convince him to come over, how he hid with Stan instead of confronting Randy, how he still hasn’t called anyone for help. He knows he’ll have to face his mother soon enough, but leaving is impossible. He sits on the bed next to Stan, wedging himself between Stan’s body and the edge. He tries not to fidget but keeps sliding off the side, and eventually Stan gets the picture and scoots over. He turns on his side to face Kyle, nestling his head near Kyle’s hip. 

“Just wake me up before you leave,” he says, and Kyle would rather let him sleep than respond.

He’s tired enough to sleep for a week but he can’t shut his eyes. Every tiny creak or gust of wind sends his heart racing again. He watches Stan for a while, reasoning that it’s only out of concern for his wellbeing. This is far closer than they usually sleep since Stan only has a twin. Sparks of dread ignite in his chest each time he puts together another clue. Stan insisting on Friday night sleepovers, always at Kyle’s place. He realizes that in the last two years he’s been to Stan’s house only a handful of times. He never argued because of his hatred for Randy and a general distaste for Sharon who refuses to leave him. It’s so fucking obvious, Kyle thinks. How could he have missed it? How long has Stan been hiding from his father, drinking the screams away, numbing himself whatever the cost? Kyle feels sick with himself for his earlier jealousy. Of course Stan wants to hang with Kenny—he’s someone who won’t judge Stan when he needs a reprieve. Kenny doesn’t moralize or nag Stan about the direction of his life. He’s just a friend. A good friend. It almost makes him wonder why it was him and not Kenny that Stan decided to call. 

Something clicks but it’s just the heat turning on. Kyle stares at the door, the dent in the wood. After a moment he notices a misshapen circle to the right of the doorknob, painted one shade lighter than the rest of the wood. A patch. He looks at Stan to make sure he’s all there. Kyle feels like if he looks long enough all the damage he’s never noticed before will surface—scars and burns and bruises solidifying on his skin. He looks the same as he always has. Kyle wants to touch him in some careful way, but the gesture would only disturb his sleep. It’s better like this. Being here is enough, for now. 

Kyle doesn’t realize he’s asleep until his phone is buzzing in his pocket and he’s startling awake. His first thought is to check on Stan—sleeping and unaware of anything it seems. Kyle digs his phone from his pocket to check the time. He knows who’s calling. It’s 4:06 AM. He slips off the bed and closes himself in Stan’s closet, sinking down into the laundry basket as Stan had before answering the call.

“KYLE. WHERE ARE YOU?”

He holds the phone away from his ear. He almost regrets picking up, but he knows his mother well enough that if he hadn’t, there’d be an amber alert and the SWAT team flying over South Park, terrorizing citizens door by door until he’s found. 

“Hi, mom.”

“ _Hi mom_? That’s all you have to say to me?! Where in god’s name are you?!”

“Mom—”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. You have _exactly_ fourteen minutes to get back here or you’re in more trouble than you can imagine, mister!”

She’ll wake Stan if she keeps this up. “Mom, please calm down. I’m at Stan’s.”

“Oh!” Her voice turns mockingly sweet in a way Kyle recognizes to mean he’s going to be murdered. “Well then I suppose that makes it all fine! Sneak out in the middle of the night, why not? Are you drinking Kyle? Are you on _drugs?_ ”

“No, Mom. Please just listen to me.”

“I don’t have to listen to anything! There is no excuse for terrifying your father and I like this—”

“Stan’s in trouble, Mom. I had to come.”

“ _Trouble?_ Oh dear lord please tell me you haven’t been arrested.” She sounds like she might cry. 

Kyle sighs into the phone. “No, Mom, no one’s been arrested. I already told you I’m at Stan’s.”

Her words are pinched and cold. “Then if no one’s been arrested, he can’t be in that much trouble. You have ten. Minutes.”

Kyle swallows with difficulty. Avoiding thinking about this conversation spared him the buildup of anxiety, but now it’s here hitting him like a wall of dread. “I can’t go with you guys.”

“What WHAT _WHAT?_ ”

“I can’t leave Stan, I’m sorry.”

“Young man if you don’t come home in the next five minutes I am driving down there—”

“Mom! Please will you listen to me?! You can’t come here. Stan’s dad will wake up and he can’t know I’m here.”

“ _Kyle!_ Tell me what’s going on right now!”

Kyle wishes he could tell her that that’s exactly what he’s been trying to do since he picked up the phone, but it wouldn’t help his case. “I—” He doesn’t want to betray Stan’s trust but he doesn’t know that his mom will take him seriously, even if he did tell her the whole truth. “It’s his dad. He’s um. He kinda freaked out.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake.” He hears his mother muffle the phone against her shoulder and whisper to his father, _It’s Randy._ “What is it now with that man?”

“He got really drunk and he, um. He just lost control, I guess. Mrs. Marsh too. They were fighting really bad.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No, Mom.” It feels like something’s cramping behind his eye. “The cops can’t help. We—he just can’t know I’m here.”

For the first time her voice lowers. “Are you safe where you are?”

“Yes, I’m safe.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. We’re safe.” They’re not safe. Half of Kyle is certain that Randy will hear him and drag him out by his collar any second. It’d be worth it. He can’t leave. 

She sighs into the phone. “Kyle, I’m sorry sweetheart, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m coming to get you. We can take Stan to a friend’s if he needs it—”

“You’re not. Listening,” he hisses. Tears are choking in his throat and he hates that she might know. How can he make her understand? “I can’t leave him. I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably hate me for this but I’m not going on the trip. I’m not.”

“Kyle, honey—”

Tears slip down his face, tickling the tip of his nose. “I’ll pay you back for the plane ticket and—and my portion of the hotels. I’ll pay it all back, I swear. I’ll get a job and give it all to you guys, I just can’t go. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.” He really is sorry. He knows how bad he’s scaring her and that the thing a good mom would do is say no. “Please,” he begs again. “Mom. Please.”

“I—” She sounds as emotional as he is. All things considered, she’s handling it better than he thought. “I just don’t know, Kyle. I don’t want you staying all by yourself.”

“I won’t be by myself. Stan will be with me.”

She scoffs. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“It’s the best way I can keep an eye on him. Stan will be safe and I’ll be safe. And if Randy comes over I’ll call the cops. I promise.” Silence on the line. “Ok? Mom?”

He doesn’t hear this particular sigh often. He exhales in relief.

“ _No one_ else is allowed inside the house except you two, do you understand me? No. One.”

“Of course. Yes. I promise. Nobody else.”

“You are to go nowhere besides home and the grocery store. That is it.”

“Alright. I’ll stay home, I promise.”

“Kyle, I…” She can’t finish, a tiny hiccup over the line. “I’m just so disappointed.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

“When are you coming home?”

“In the morning. When Stan’s awake.”

“I can come get you both—”

“No. His dad might wake up. We’ll leave in the morning, I promise.”

“You call me as soon as you’re home. The second you walk through the door.”

“I will. I’ll send you pictures or something, ok? You can trust me.”

Her breath shudders. “I love you, sweetheart.” 

“I love you too, Mom. Have a safe flight. Um, text me when you guys land.”

“I will.” 

Kyle can hear his brother’s voice in the background, the confusion and hushed expletives. 

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye—” 

He hangs up before she can say more. She’d draw it out until he changed his mind if he let her. He sits with palms crushing his eyes, waiting for his lip to stop shaking. A stereotype but true nonetheless, Kyle is often racked with unshakeable guilt. This is worse than all the other times. What he’s doing is cruel. Kyle knows perfectly well what this vacation meant to his parents. The last time they’d do something ‘as a family’ without Kyle having an adult life of his own to integrate. A symbolic farewell to Kyle’s boyhood in a drawn-out and sentimental fashion just to his parents’ liking. He never wanted to go, but free from the trip does not equal freedom from the burden. This will weigh on him every second that he’s home and they’re not. 

When he composes himself Kyle leaves the closet, flinching as the door creaks. Stan hasn’t moved. Kyle crawls back into the bed with his jeans on and tries not to move the mattress too much. Stan grumbles when Kyle accidentally knees him in the side, moving onto his back.

He hums out, “Are you leaving?” His eyes are still closed.

“No, go back to sleep.” Kyle uses Stan’s moment of consciousness to adjust himself comfortably in the limited space. He sets his phone to vibrate and puts it under his pillow, alarm set for 9 AM. It’s nowhere near enough sleep, but it’ll have to do.

Kyle’s eyes are blinking closed when Stan puts a heavy hand on his upper arm. “Thanks,” he says, voice logged with sleep. 

Kyle yawns. “It’s ok.”

“No, seriously.” He thumps his hand down again, then lets his arm go limp so his hand slides onto the center of Kyle’s chest. His fingers curl into the center of his palm and Kyle thinks he can almost feel Stan’s nails through his shirt. He wants to put his hand on top of Stan’s, so he does, just for a moment with sleep-addled leniency, then forgets to take it away as he dozes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i s2g if there's even a single shot of tegridy farms in s24 i will take to the streets


	3. Monday

Kyle wakes to Stan’s body flung over his torso, puking into the bedside trash can. The move knocks the wind out of him and for a split second he thinks he’s being attacked. A putrid smell works into Kyle’s nostrils and he covers his face with his hand. 

“Fuck dude, are you ok?” Stupid question. Stan can’t exactly answer with vomit streaming out of his mouth. Kyle’s stomach is starting to turn and he looks away.

Stan groans after a minute, grumbles, “Fuck.” He spits and gives Kyle a pitiful look. “Good morning.”

Kyle checks the time. 8:21 AM. It hurts to open his eyes and despite being sober he feels hungover. He hands Stan a bottle of water from the bedside table. To his credit, Stan sucks it down without complaint. 

“Dude,” Stan says, panting just a little. “How are you still here?”

Kyle shrugs and crosses his arms. Stan doesn’t look suspicious, but it still feels like admitting something to actually say what he did. He yawns for effect. “I told my mom I couldn’t go on the trip.”

Stan pauses. “Dude, are you serious?” Kyle is afraid to see Stan’s expression, but it just looks like blanket surprise. 

“Yeah?”

“And she let you?”

“Yes. What? What’s that face?”

“Nothing,” Stan lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m just like, shocked.”

“Whatever, dude, she’s not awful like, all the time.”

“I’m not complaining.” Stan winces and puts a hand on his stomach. “Did you, um, like, tell her or…?”

“I mean, kind of. Just that like, your dad’s… you know. And that you can’t be alone right now.” 

Stan nods and bites his lips. Kyle shouldn’t have said the last part. The least he could do right now is not patronize him. 

“How’d she take it?”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dude, yes,” Kyle huffs. “Not making me feel better.” 

“Ok, sorry, sorry.” His voice is still alarmingly loud in Kyle’s opinion. 

“Alright, well,” Kyle clears his throat and nods at Stan. “Let’s head over to my place.”

“Like, now?”

“Yes, now. I told my mom I’d go home in the morning and you’re coming with me.”

“It’s cool dude, you don’t—”

“Uh, no, it’s not cool.” Kyle swings his legs over the side and stands. “This is literally one of my mom’s stipulations while they’re gone. I can’t stay at the house alone and no one is allowed over except for you.”

Stan rubs his forehead. He almost seems amused, to Kyle’s annoyance. “Ok… Any other rules I should know about?” 

“We’re not allowed to go anywhere except the grocery store.”

Stan actually laughs and stands on shaky legs. He reaches back to catch himself on the bed at the same time that Kyle grabs his arm to steady him.

“You good, dude?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves Kyle off. “Let me just grab some shit.”

Stan doesn’t bring much, only as many clothes as will fit in his backpack already filled with his phone, laptop and cords. Every time he opens a drawer Kyle’s eyes flick to the door. He feels cowardly and pathetic but it does nothing to dull the instinct to flee. 

Stan zips up his bag, looks around the room. “Oh.” He walks over to his guitar propped in the corner. “Can I bring this?” The strings twang as he lifts it. 

“Uh, yeah, sure I guess. Do you have a case for it?”

“Duh, dude, it’s under the bed. Pack it up for me?” In a single move Stan steps to the door and wrenches it open, a dull scraping sound like it doesn't fit in the threshold anymore. 

Kyle freezes, hisses, “What are you doing?!”

Stan pauses, already halfway into the hall. “Going to the bathroom?”

“Dude, seriously?”

Stan sighs. “Honestly, it’s fine. I need to piss and I want to grab my toothbrush.”

“What if your dad wakes up?”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Even if he did, he’s gonna be more hungover than me. What the fuck can he do?”

Kyle chews his lips as he fishes out the guitar case, scares himself by knocking it against the bed frame. Thankfully Stan is true to his word. He’s back in a few minutes and Randy doesn’t wake up, even as they head downstairs, Stan’s breezy steps thumping the whole way. 

It’s not as bad as Kyle expected. The furniture is all mostly in the right place. Kitchen chairs are knocked on their sides, one with a leg missing. He steps on something crunchy near the couch, realizes it’s glass. There’s a crack in the wall next to the arm of the couch, but Kyle’s not certain it wasn’t already there. He heads for the front door before realizing that Stan isn’t following him.

“Stan!” Kyle steps carefully to the kitchen where Stan is rummaging through cupboards. “Dude, what are you doing?”

“Eating breakfast.”

“You can eat breakfast at my place, let’s go.”

“Calm down, dude, give me a second.”

Stan’s nonchalance is making Kyle doubt his sanity, but he leans against the kitchen counter anyway, steeling himself. If he gets any more annoyed he won’t be able to control his volume. 

“Cereal?” Stan asks, grabbing down a bowl. Kyle notices that the cupboard door is hanging off one of its hinges. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.” He grabs down two bowls anyway and pours milk over the corn pops. He sets the bowl in front of Kyle and clinks their spoons together. “Bon appetit.”

Kyle doesn’t think he can eat until the cereal’s in his mouth and he discovers that he’s ravenous. They chew in silence, Stan staring at a spot in the middle distance, seemingly calm. Kyle takes the opportunity to observe his surroundings. He remembers being eight years old in this kitchen, grabbing chairs to reach into the cabinets. He still knows where they keep their cups and their plates and their cutlery—even the porcelain frog nestled by the toaster that holds toothpicks under its head. There are more off-color circles dotted around the kitchen and living room, one the size of a microwave on the wall beside the sliding door. He thinks those must be old, as there are more carefully spackled areas that he only notices when he looks long enough. 

“So, is your mom like, gone?” Kyle asks.

Stan shrugs, clanking his bowl into the sink. “I guess.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Probably to my aunt’s.”

“Do you need to call her?”

Stan snorts as he tongues something from between his teeth. “It’s fine, dude.”

“Stan.”

“You know what I mean. They’re like this. Do you want pizza?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you want pizza?” Stan opens the fridge and pulls out a box shoved sideways on top of the condiments. 

“Uh, I’m good, thanks.”

“Cool. I’m gonna bring it.”

“I have food at my house, dude.”

“But do you have pizza?” Stan lifts the box in one hand, waggling his eyebrows. Kyle wants to laugh, wants to be thankful that Stan’s ok, but instead it unsettles him more. Kyle went to sleep just a few hours earlier with a damp collar soaked from their tears. This isn’t ok. He can’t just act like everything’s ok. 

Kyle blames the awkwardness on his exhaustion. He carries the pizza box while Stan has the guitar case. His arms start to ache as they walk through the snow. Some people have shoveled their walks already but most haven’t. Kyle doesn’t have enough energy to feel confident in his ability to stay upright, and focuses most of his attention on that. Stan seems fine not to talk, leading the way to Kyle’s house like it were his own. It can be, for a few weeks at least. Kyle needs more time to formulate his argument, but if things go his way, a few weeks will become months. 

Kyle’s house is even cleaner than it usually is, sparkling like someone tried to cover up a crime scene. Stan sets his stuff down by the couch and heads to the fridge to put away the pizza. The floor plans of their houses are exactly the same, just mirrored—most houses in South Park follow one of three architectural designs. Kyle used to think that’s why Stan always acts so at home at Kyle’s. 

“Do you want anything? Water?” Stan calls from the kitchen.

Kyle collapses on the couch. They haven’t turned on the lights—just the dining room light on a dimmer left on—and the darkness threatens to pull Kyle to sleep there and then. “Uh, yeah I guess. Water’s good.”

This is so fucking weird. Kyle has some big questions he needs to ask Stan, but he’s hardly conscious enough to string a sentence together. The overhead light flicks on and Kyle winces.

“Bon appetit, again,” Stan says, setting down three glasses of water on the coffee table. 

Kyle lifts his eyebrows. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, dude,” Stan says, like Kyle’s speaking Klingon. “You’re dehydrated as fuck.”

“I’m fine,” Kyle huffs.

“You haven’t used the bathroom in like eight hours. Drink the water.”

That is a little worrisome, Kyle thinks, given his bladder size. For his ego, he glowers at Stan anyway as he sips his glass. Stan turns on the TV, toes off his shoes and props his feet on the table. Kyle follows suit, letting Stan pick the channel. He lands on a nature documentary, something about creatures of the deep sea.

After almost twenty minutes of silence Stan says, “You know, I can’t remember the last time I watched one of these things sober.”

Kyle huffs in laughter, too drained for any sound to come out. “You need to clean up your act, Stanley,” he says. “There’s a lot we can learn from these creatures.”

The show starts in on the intricacies of orca pod dynamics and they both get uneasy. It’s enough to prompt Kyle to change the subject, even if what he’ll say is even more awkward.

“So we should probably talk about last night.” Kyle doesn’t want to look at Stan, half worried he’ll start breaking again. Instead Stan pinches his mouth shut and just nods.

“Probably should.” He takes a long drink from his glass.

“Do… you have anything you want to say, or…?”

Stan shrugs, hugging his water to his chest. “I dunno, man.”

Kyle thinks he should be better at this. Stan is desperately trying to appear nonchalant and the performance is so see-through Kyle feels a little guilty. “Are you, um, like actually ok?”

Stan exhales in a chuckle and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, I’m ok, dude. I promise.”

“Have you talked to anyone about this before?”

“Look,” Stan sits forward, reaching to place his glass on a coaster. “I promise I’m not trying to weasel out of this conversation, I’m just super fucking wiped right now. Is it ok if we do this later?”

“Um,” Kyle blushes with shame. “I mean, yeah, I guess. Later though, right?”

“Yeah dude, totally. Later. I can barely think straight right now, I’m so fucking hungover.”

“For sure.” 

Kyle senses that this is a lie, but is willing to let himself believe it for now. For Stan’s sake. How often does he ask things of Kyle? Having a bad attitude is probably what made Stan keep all of it from him in the first place. 

Thankfully the show has moved on to jellyfish. Kyle wishes he was a little high, to zone out to jellyfish the way he, Stan and Kenny did once on a field trip to the aquarium last year, and to take the edge off of the anxiety buzzing up and down his legs. Restless leg isn’t new to him but it’s usually a nighttime problem, not a first-thing-in-the-morning problem. Ambient noises of the house keep half-startling him, jolting him to attention each time he starts to relax. Stan seems mostly unfazed, pale and tired. He focuses on rehydrating, sipping, glancing at Stan, sipping, glancing, sipping. Then the front of his shirt is all wet—somewhere between the sipping and glancing he fell asleep holding his glass. Stan laughs as Kyle swipes at his chest. 

“Dude, you should go to sleep.”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He can’t sleep cold and damp like this anyway. 

“Seriously, go to bed. I got way more sleep than you.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, really. Just take a nap or something. You can set an alarm if you really want.”

Before Kyle can open his mouth he realizes he’s too exhausted to argue. 

“Ugh, fine. At least let me take your stuff upstairs. I’ll set you up in Ike’s room.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take my shit up later. Just go to sleep, dude, you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks, asshole.”

“Don’t mention it.” Stan settles back into the couch and flips to ESPN. Kyle feels like he should say something more meaningful before leaving, but his bladder has caught up with him and there’s no time to lose. 

He takes another shower to try and relax himself, only to regret it as soon as he gets out and the cold, still air of his room freezes him. He curses and walks over to his bed for his suitcase. No suitcase. Kyle knows he’s doomed before he can confirm it—not on the other side of the bed, or under, or in his closet, and it wasn’t downstairs. His dad probably packed it with the rest of their baggage when they still thought his mother was going to pick him up. Part of Kyle is thankful for being too tired to have a full-on meltdown about half his wardrobe being in another country, the other half in a Goodwill donation bin. There are three pairs of clean underwear in his drawers, some socks, but that’s about it. He packed all his good pajamas in his suitcase, since Toronto is supposed to be even colder than Colorado in the next few weeks. All that’s left are a thin pair of bottoms, essentially drawstring yoga pants that he keeps for rare summer nights, and a souvenir t-shirt from a debate team trip to Aspen in seventh grade. He puts his towel over his pillow when he lies down, knowing it’ll be useless against his dripping hair. It’s so cold he wants to cry, but that would mean he’d get even wetter, and therefore colder still. 

_can u turn up the heat?_ Kyle texts Stan once the lights are off. 

Not thirty seconds later, _on it_

The heater kicks on, feeling mostly like a fan at first until Kyle’s actually shivering, then heat snakes around his body until he’s halfway unconscious. His parents will probably be mad that he’s running up their gas bill, but they’re going to be mad at him no matter what. Speaking of, he texts his parents a picture of the side of his face with the blankets pulled up— _i’m home_ —then mutes the conversation. If he feels even an ounce more emotional distress, he won’t be able to sleep without narcotic intervention.

Kyle’s version of counting sheep is filing his daily interactions with Stan into their appropriate lists, but today the very concept of them feels ridiculous. Delusional. Insulting. It occurs to him that filtering their entire friendship through a potential romantic lens is beyond inappropriate, verging on disrespectful. Stan is a full human being with real feelings and real problems. Reducing him to how he feels about Kyle is… He can’t think about this right now. It’s too easy to let this fester and metastasize into anxious self loathing. Best to shut it down. To Kyle’s surprise, it’s actually quite easy. 

He can’t remember the last time he woke up on his own. If it’s not an alarm for school, it’s his mom nudging him awake to get ready for Shabbat on Saturday, the SAT tutor on Sunday mornings. The feeling is disorienting, and not just because it was light out when he went to sleep. The heat is still groaning and Kyle’s actually sweating, a strange texture on his cheek from where his face pressed into the towel. He grabs his phone—7:18 PM. Jesus. His brain feels waterlogged and it takes him a minute to realize that he only woke up because he needs to piss, badly. In the hallway he hears music coming from downstairs, almost old-timey? It smells like food and his stomach gurgles. Once he’s jogging down the stairs, the tune finally registers. Christmas music. 

In the kitchen, Stan is pulling a baking sheet from the oven. He startles when he sees Kyle, the pizza leaping an inch off the pan. 

“Fuck! Warn a guy, will you?”

“Did you cook?”

“Not really, I just heated up the pizza. I was literally about to go get you.”

“Uh, thanks, dude. I’m actually starving.”

“No shit, you haven’t eaten in like ten hours.” 

Has it been that long? Where did domestic Stan come from? “I’m a little surprised you managed not to burn yourself.”

Stan shrugs, rifling around for the pizza cutter and grabbing plates. “Practice makes perfect.”

That sick feeling again. Of course Stan knows how to use an oven. He’s probably been fending for himself in that house for years. Kyle feels guilty for ever complaining about his mom and dad’s garden variety parental failings—which he does, to Stan, a lot. How long has he been rolling his eyes while Kyle was too furious to notice? 

“Do you want a drink or anything?” Stan tears off a paper towel from the wall hanger with his teeth, plates in both hands.

“Um, I think there’s diet Sprite in the fridge.”

“Cool, go get it yourself.” He elbows Kyle as he heads out to the living room, smirking. 

Kyle does, then joins Stan on the couch. The TV is tuned to one of those weird channels in the 900s that plays genre music all day. The jangly tune is vaguely familiar to Kyle, but he’s never good at remembering the titles. How many variations of “Winter Time For Santa Claus” can there be? Apparently, many.

Around a bite, Kyle asks, “Did you sleep at all?”

Stan swallows, tilts his head. “Kind of. I passed out on the couch for a little bit but I got hungry. Then _The_ _Santa Claus_ was on, so I watched that and now you’re pretty much up to speed.”

His foot is bouncing in time to the music and he actually does seem refreshed. Kyle is still trying to blink sleep from his eyes. They still need to have the conversation. Later. Stan doesn’t often stay cheery for more than five-hour stretches.

“Are you actually into this music?” Kyle asks, eyebrow cocked.

“Don’t be a grinch, dude.”

“Is that the green guy or the one from the Muppet movie?”

“There’s green guys in both of those.”

“Stan.”

He laughs. “It’s the Dr. Seuss cartoon. Or the one where Jim Carey’s scary as fuck.”

Stan wagers that _The Grinch_ is playing somewhere on TV right now, and he’s right, it’s on some holiday movie marathon, which Kyle still thinks is an offensive title given that the PC ‘holiday’ term implies something other than just Christmas movies. It’s the cartoon version, soundtracked with that same warbly music that the music channel was playing. Stan gets up to put his plate away at the same time Kyle is about to ask what the hype is about this movie. For the best—Stan doesn’t need to hear another rant about a beloved historical figure that was racist.

Stan reappears, leaning against the wall between the dining room and living room. “Ok, honest question.”

Kyle sets his jaw, braces himself. “...Yeah?”

Stan whips a bottle from behind his back, presenting it to Kyle. A gifted bottle of bourbon from his Uncle Murrey two years ago. His parents are wine people—they mostly kept it to look pretty on the shelf. 

“Can we drink this?”

“Dude!”

“Come on, your parents hate me anyway.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“Well,” Stan twists off the cap and takes a small sip. “They will now.”

None of this seems advisable. Stan should not be drinking, ever, but especially not after a binge that made him so sick he could barely walk. Stan plops next to him on the couch, taking a longer drink. Then again, last night was the most emotionally open Stan’s been with him in years. Plus, didn’t they say in physiology that if an alcoholic stops drinking cold turkey they can actually die? Not that Stan’s an alcoholic. Probably. 

“You joining me?” Stan tips the mouth of the bottle toward him.

“Um.” Kyle’s not much of a drinker. Besides the few times he’s imbibed with Kenny and Stan, he can’t justify the misery of hangovers. Kyle prefers to get high, because at least that’s not a poison, and there are technically medicinal properties to it and yes, it does help his anxiety. It also peaks his anxiety when he thinks too hard about whether or not this means he’s a drug user, but most of the time he can let go of that. The being high part helps. “I don’t know,” he says.

“You can tell your parents it was all me. They’ll never know.”

Kyle sighs. If he’s drunk maybe he’ll have the courage to actually bring up the conversation. He holds out his hand. “Alright, fork it over.” 

Stan’s responding smile while he takes a bitter sip makes it all worth it. He suggests a drinking game while they watch _Elf_ , mixing the diet Sprite with the bourbon into their own cups. Take a sip every time you hear jingle bells, a gulp when Will Ferrell does something gross, and chug when Santa comes on screen. Considering Santa’s featured in most scenes for the first ten minutes of the movie, Kyle’s body is buzzing by the time Peter Dinklage shows up. 

Their shoulders lean against each other on the couch, aided by the natural lean of the cushions toward the middle. Something that normally causes self-conscious gay panic is now purely joyous. Stan’s skin is warm where his elbow keeps bumping Kyle’s. He hasn’t dared to make this much eye contact with Stan in a while. Why did he ever worry? Stan’s his best friend. Enjoying someone’s company isn’t coming onto them. Stan makes a joke about one of the extras in a crowd scene that makes Kyle laugh so hard he spits half his cup onto the coffee table. 

Drinking is so much better than he remembers. Where weed makes his negative emotions evaporate, alcohol drives his mind into a deep happiness. He’s aware that sadness and fear are just on the other side, not gone, but he’s too entrenched in this moment to care. With each drink and joke he chases a giddy momentum he hasn’t felt between them in years. _This is how we used to be_ , he thinks. _What happened?_ It doesn’t matter now. They’re back. It doesn’t have to be complicated. 

Stan is drunk but Kyle is much drunker. There’s a charming quality to the way Stan teases Kyle for slurring his words, nudges him and calls him a lightweight. Kyle says, “You’re not heavier than me. Like five pounds tops,” and Stan cracks up, threatening to haul Kyle over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He narrowly avoids this by jabbing Stan in the side after play wrestling. 

Stan’s still cradling his sore ribs when he says, “Dude, I can’t believe this is real.”

“What is?”

“We just get to stay here all break.”

Kyle scoffs, it feels too revealing to agree. “You stay here every week.”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

Kyle agrees—everything about this night feels distinctly different to the inebriated Fridays they spend together. He almost grasps a thread of thought, something about feeling safe, but it’s swept away when Stan jostles him.

“Like,” Stan gestures to nothing. “It’s like adulthood-lite. We can pretend we’re grown up and take care of a house all by ourselves.”

“Oh yeah,” Kyle takes a sip. “Eating pizza and getting shitfaced is totally adult-like.”

Stan shrugs. “It is at my house.”

Kyle’s laugh curdles in his throat. He needs to stop being an asshole. They still need to have the conversation. 

“Dude,” Stan throws a hand on his arm, mouth hanging open. “Don’t say no.”

“What?”

“Seriously, just hear me out.”

Oh boy. “What is it? You’re freaking me out.”

Stan poorly conceals a grin. “Ok. What if—don’t freak out—what if… we had a party.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Come on! Think about it! This is literally the perfect opportunity. Who else has an empty house right now?”

Kyle leans forward. He can’t be serious. “No one, because their parents know not to trust them. My parents will literally kill me. You didn’t hear my mom on the phone.”

“Kyle!” Stan whines like a little kid, tugging on his sleeve.

“Stan!” He whines back. 

“You’re not thinking about this the right way. You’re gonna graduate in six months. This is your last chance to actually say goodbye to these people.”

“Stan,” he can’t believe he has to explain this to him. “I don’t give a fuck about those people. That’s why I’m moving away.”

“You spent thirteen years with them, that has to count for something, right? It’s the last chance.”

“How is it the last chance? There’s prom, graduation, the summer—”

“No there isn’t! Ok? Look.” He’s shifted on the couch to face Kyle full-on. “After break, people are going to start getting their college acceptances, and then the rest of high school is just waiting for it to be over. Nobody remembers prom because you get too plastered and spend too much money, and by graduation you don’t give a fuck anymore. And are you really going to call up these people to hang out over the summer when you know you don’t ever actually have to see them again?”

Kyle pauses, trying to absorb the information and keep his vision clear. “It sounds like you’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Not like, a lot.” Stan picks at his cuticles. “It’s not like I secretly planned this or something.”

“I didn’t mean that, I just—I don’t know. People break shit at parties, they’ll fuck up the house.”

“Kyle, I will get a job this summer and give you all of the money to cover any expenses. I promise. Kyle. Please.” He scoots off the couch and kneels in front of him, hands clasped together. “Please, Kyle?”

Kyle sighs, laughs to himself. “You know I used the same thing on my mom last night.”

“And it worked, right?” Stan’s hopeful little eyebrow lifts. God. Kyle is so fucked.

Stan pops one of Kyle’s vertebrae squeezing him so tightly. Many promises of how Kyle won’t regret this, they’re going to have so much fun, they can go shopping tomorrow for supplies. The rest of the night slips by like liquid. They move the furniture around, trying to find the best configuration to accommodate twenty-something guests. Then the open floor plan leads to a cartwheel competition, where Kyle kicks Stan in the face and leaves a sock burn on his chin. Stan tries to lift Kyle in one of his dining room chairs, singing gibberish Hava Nagila. He fails and the chair leg smashes on his index finger. Kyle grabs him a bag of frozen peas. Stan tries to smack him in the balls with the bag a minimum of six times. 

They end up back on the couch—Kyle can’t remember the last time he had this much energy for anything—out of breath but still buzzed. They sit on opposite ends, legs outstretched in the middle toward each other. Stan tickles Kyle’s sole with his toe, leading to a foot wrestling match. They press their soles together to see who can get their legs locked straight out. It’s pretty even at first, until Kyle gets distracted, letting Stan win so he doesn’t have to see his ass and crotch on display. Stan’s wearing sweatpants and Kyle doesn’t want to know how revealing they are. But he wonders. Something ripples through him and he remembers how thin his stupid pajama pants are, is suprised that Stan hasn’t made fun of them yet. He forgets how close to the surface it all gets with alcohol. Stan’s eyes flick between Kyle’s legs and his face, grinning and biting his lip. So close to the surface it pushes all his blood up against the underside of his skin. 

Stan’s foot slips and his heel smashes between Kyle’s ass and balls. He lurches back as he swears. Stan is overly apologetic, but Kyle is thankful. It’s a desperately needed reality check. Stan tosses him the bag of peas, _you know, for your little peas_ , and Kyle throws a pillow at him. A string of shitty Christmas cartoons is on TV and they recline, finish the bottle, passing it between them. Spit as a concept is disgusting to Kyle, but it’s not the worst knowing it’s Stan’s lining the lip of the bottle. Kenny once gave a blowjob to a beer bottle on camera for twenty bucks. Some party of one of Craig’s friends. Kyle saw the video, didn’t attend the party, but never forgot the slurs and grossed out reactions, the raucous slapping laughter. Stan laughed, but he wasn’t freaking out like the other guys. Kyle remembers considering that a point for the _Does_ list at the time. He shouldn’t be thinking this. He won’t get hard with frozen peas against his balls, but it can’t help things. 

The bubbly part of the evening is over, giving way to a heavy lethargy. Kyle knows now why Stan uses this to sleep. His limbs are uncoordinated and leaden, an inconvenience to lift. “Hey.” He nudges Stan’s knee with his foot. “We should go get more of your stuff at some point.”

Stan’s nuzzled into the opposite couch corner, cuddling a pillow like a teddy bear. Kyle thinks he hasn’t heard him when he answers, “What for?”

“Just to make you more comfortable, I guess. I mean. You can stay here as long as you want. Even when my parents get back.”

Stan closes his eyes and smiles. “Maybe. Thanks.”

Kyle has no set response for this. Stan always resists, Kyle always lectures. Stan’s eyes don’t reopen and Kyle watches him from the changing light of flashing commercials, his chest moving softly with his breath. 

Sleep is coming quickly but he decides the whole evening belongs to _Does_. Even if it’s not like that. He made Stan happy tonight. That’s worth something. Half points. With an asterisk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol can you tell this was supposed to be finished by christmas


	4. Tuesday

Kyle wakes two hours before Stan with a crick in his neck. He fell asleep with his head hanging over the arm of the sofa and now he’s clicking with every movement. This is the least of his problems. The two big ones, in no particular order, are: 

  * He’s so hungover it feels like he’s died 
  * He agreed to let Stan throw a party at his house the day after tomorrow



The entire situation is very unlike Kyle. He seldom says yes to Stan’s schemes, not since they were kids and he got tired of them biting him in the ass. He tries to drink water but it only makes him more nauseous. Food is out of the question. He slowly drags himself upstairs to shower, but ends up sitting on the floor of the bath letting the spray rain down on him. At least this way he won’t drown, and if he’s not upright he can’t fall and break his neck. He falls asleep with his head against the tile wall until the water turns cold. Now he’s dizzy, nauseous, and shivering. His towel isn’t big enough to keep him warm so he hobbles to his room, the ground moving beneath him like he’s walking up a down escalator. He collapses in front of his dresser before remembering he doesn’t have clothes to change into. Shamefully, he whimpers and knocks his head, hard, against his dresser in frustration. This is a bad idea. He barely makes it to the toilet before he’s spewing acrid yellow liquid into the bowl. How the fuck does Stan do this so often? How is he not dead?

After a while he accepts that the bathroom is his new permanent address, lying fully on the floor with his head on the bathmat. Someday he might be strong enough to move again. That’s none of his concern now.

“Kyle?” Stan pads up the stairs and calls from the hallway. “Dude, are you up here?”

He only has enough sense to nudge the door shut with his foot before Stan sees him naked and half-dead in front of the toilet.

Two knocks. “Hey, you alright in there?”

Kyle groans indistinctly.

“Dude? Let me in, I can’t hear you.”

“Can’t,” Kyle manages, panting between words. “I just showered, I’m not dressed.” Maybe ‘just’ is an overstatement, but how would he know. “I’m dying.”

“Oh shit, dude, sorry. Um, do you need me to grab your clothes or something?” 

“Don’t have any.”

A pause. “...Are you sure?”

God, now Stan thinks he’s a lightweight and a fucking idiot. “They took my suitcase. All my shit was in it.”

Kyle should probably call his parents about that. He can see he has about 35 unread messages from them, but talking to them now will involve several layers of lies. Thanks, Stan.

“Oh fuck, you didn’t tell me.” 

Kyle can see his feet under the door. His right sock has a hole big enough for an entire toe to fit through.

“Hold on,” Stan says. “I’ll go grab some of my clothes. One second.”

He’s gone before Kyle can object. There’s no lock on the bathroom door—a product of his parents’ mistrust—and Stan knocks gently before he opens it a crack, a bundle of clothes in hand.

“Where are you?” He asks. “I’m not looking.”

“Just drop them on the floor.”

Stan has to know how bad Kyle is feeling to say that. He gives a suspicious ok before opening his hand and letting them fall, telling Kyle he’ll be back to check on him in a few minutes. If this is even a fraction of how Stan felt, being coddled and looked after at a personal low, Kyle can only imagine how embarrassed Stan must have been yesterday. He drags himself over to the clothes and finds that Stan brought him a pair of socks and underwear from Kyle’s own drawers. They’re souvenirs like his pajamas: Hanukkah socks and Lego man boxers from his family’s trip to Legoland in sixth grade. Stan’s contribution is a heather gray t-shirt and joggers—the only other pair Stan owns. Kyle’s hips are narrower than Stan’s; they’ll sag unless he pulls the drawstring to comical lengths. Whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. With effort he pulls on the bottom half of his outfit while still sitting, then waits for the vertigo to subside. His hair is practically dry by now and he tosses the towel in a crumple by the sink. As he pulls the shirt over his head he’s overwhelmed by the smell of Stan on the fabric. He props himself against the wall next to the door and pulls the collar over his nose. How had he never thought of this before? Kyle smiles to himself at the promise of another three weeks of this. 

Double knock before the door cracks open. Stan’s voice, “Are you decent?”

“Yeah.” Kyle pulls the collar down and pushes the door open the rest of the way. Stan enters, steps in front of him.

“Alright! Someone looks fresh. Must be the cool clothes.”

“Stan,” he swallows down a strong wave of nausea. “I really mean this, ok? Fuck you.” Kyle flips him the bird but Stan just laughs and grabs his hand, hauls him to his feet.

“Slow! Slow—fuck dude. I can’t see straight,” Kyle groans. Stan leaves a steadying hand on his arm, watching him. “Ugh,” Kyle swallows down a sharp taste in the hinges of his jaw. “How do people survive this?”

“It’s easy. Just don’t be a lightweight.”

“Oh yeah, I should’ve thought of that, thanks, Stan.” Kyle narrows his eyes. 

“Come on.” Stan holds out his arm for Kyle to grab onto. “Let’s just get you on the couch, ok?”

Kyle wishes he could better appreciate the physical contact. He squeezes Stan’s arm so hard it’ll leave a welt, until Stan gets fed up with how slow they’re walking that he slings Kyle’s arm over his shoulder and puts his own arm around Kyle’s ribcage. He’s warm, which actually makes Kyle more nauseous, but it’s worth it. Sort of. 

They make it to the couch and Stan declares that he’s running out for something. “Just for a second.” Kyle asks why, but Stan won’t elaborate. Just tells him to sit tight and he’ll be back. Kyle takes this opportunity to nod off, waking again to the sound of Stan’s return. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, says as much to Stan who’s eager to show him what he bought.

“Fine, hold your hand out,” Stan says.

“Why?”

“Just do it, dude.”

“This better not be something gross.” Kyle reaches into nothingness and feels Stan’s hand guide him to some kind of plastic rectangle. A bottle?

“Dude, what is this?”

“Why don’t you open your eyes, genius.”

He wasn’t expecting to see a large container of Pedialyte.

“Um, what?”

“It’ll help with the hangover.”

Kyle frowns. “Isn’t this for babies?”

“Exactly!”

Kyle attempts to kick him but Stan easily dodges.

“I’m not done.” He reaches from a bag behind him on the coffee table. “Think fast.”

Kyle is pelted in the chest by something warm. If Stan’s not careful he really is going to puke on him.

“Nothing cures hangovers like McMuffins, dude.” He sits down on the edge of the coffee table and unwraps one of his own. The smell is simultaneously invigorating and disgusting.

Kyle eyes it, considering. “But it’s not kosher.” 

Stan smiles. It’s a public secret that Kyle doesn’t keep kosher. His parents don’t ask him about it, and he’s fine to let them live in willful ignorance. The first bite is better than pissing, or exhaling, or any other relieving bodily sensation. The second bite is whatever the opposite of that is, and he cracks open the Pedialyte for relief.

“Eugh,” Kyle can hardly swallow. It’s cherry and sticky and awful. “This is like drinking fucking cough syrup, dude.”

Stan pitches his voice high. “Well then let me get you some ice for that, my little poopie-kins!” Even though they haven’t been to Cartman’s in years, they still do impressions of his mom to amuse each other.

It is better with ice. And once the McMuffin is settled in his stomach, Stan surprises him with a second Mcmuffin, this one more palatable than the last. “See? I fucking told you, dude. Don’t question the expert.”

“That’s not something to be proud of.”

Stan turns on the TV, picking another movie marathon. He coughs into his fist—” _Lightweight!_ Oh sorry, got something stuck in my throat.”

Kyle suffers through another bizarre claymation Christmas cartoon. It gives him the necessary time to recover, thankfully, before they leave for the grocery store. They take Kyle’s mom’s car—he’s technically barred from driving it by the insurance company because teenagers are “high risk,” but Kyle figures driving the car was part of the bargain. It’s not a long walk, but Stan was insistent that they go to the market on the far end of town. Something about not wanting to run into his old coworkers. In the parking lot, Stan snickers behind Kyle’s back as they approach the entrance.

Kyle whips around, default defensiveness wielded. “What, dude?”

“Nothing,” Stan looks him up and down. “You just… you look like me.”

Kyle blushes. “Yeah, well that’s what happens when I wear your clothes, smartass.”

“I didn’t say you look bad!”

“Whatever, grab a cart.”

They stroll the aisles like they have nowhere to be—technically true, although the blasting air is making Kyle’s skin dry and taut on his face. He’s never spent this long in a grocery store before. No one dares shop with his mom, and when it’s him, his dad, and Ike they take a list and split in different directions. Stan buys enough snacks and instant meals to last them the whole winter, tossing things into the cart with wild abandon. 

“Dude, you know we actually have to pay for this stuff, right? My mom left me a hundred bucks to last the week.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it.”

Kyle scoffs. “Alright, Mr. Moneybags.”

Stan grabs a coupon from a hanging dispenser and waves it at Kyle. “Dude, do you remember when we used to pretend these were money?”

Kyle does, vaguely—something with a fake bank and Monopoly money, did Cartman stage a heist?

“I’ll just pay with these,” Stan says, grabbing out more.

Kyle slaps his hand. “Dude! We’re not six anymore, we’re gonna get in trouble.”

Stan snorts. “I’m pretty sure the manager is Clyde’s uncle, I think I can handle him.” They near a Christmas display and Stan’s face lights up.

“No,” Kyle starts. “No no no, we’re not decorating.”

“What’s the point of the party if we’re not celebrating! Come on, just a few things. Please?” He picks up a garish animatronic Santa figurine, gyrating its hips to a staticky carol. 

Kyle grabs it from him and places it back on the shelf. “Fine. But not that. It’s gonna give me fucking nightmares, dude.”

With Kyle’s approval they pick out some string lights and an ugly styrofoam wreath with holly berries falling off. After much begging all the way up to the register, Kyle finally agrees to a shiny plastic banner that reads _HO HO HO!_ for the living room. Stan drums his hands on the cart handle as they wait, humming along to the Christmas soundtrack. Has Stan always been this gung ho about Christmas? Maybe Kyle had blocked it out in previous years, or maybe Stan had actual family to spend the holiday with instead. Either way, it’s nice to see him this happy while sober. 

Stan elbows Kyle. “Dude,” he says, and shushes Kyle when he asks what. He makes eyes at him that Kyle doesn’t understand, and then cups his hand around Kyle’s ear.

Whispered, “Isn’t that Officer Barbrady up there?”

Two in front of them in line is indeed a haggard-looking Officer Barbrady, paying for five bottles of Jack Daniels, a twelve pack of Coke Zero and some hand sanitizer.

Kyle makes a yikes face to Stan. Stan leans back in, no hand this time.

“Looks like a very merry Christmas.” They stifle their laughter. “Like, do you need some lotion and tissues too? Complete the sad sack starter kit?”

Kyle thinks after this much proximity for this many years he should be used to it by now. And to a degree he is, it’s not like he’s popping a boner everytime Stan touches him, but it’s warm and achy in his body when they make contact, especially like this. As close as they are there aren’t many excuses for their faces to be this near each other. He presses the joy down, keeps it secret and safe even from himself. To let it into the light would be to kill it with likelihoods and reality. Repression is his only recourse. 

“I almost feel bad for him,” Stan says, turning his body the other way even though there’s no way to make it not obvious that they’re gossiping.

Kyle leans into Stan’s ear, cupped hand resting against his hair. “Hasn’t he like, shot children?”

Stan hums and shrugs as they move up to the conveyor belt. The cashier gives them a look as the hoard comes down to her, though Stan seems oblivious. They ring up at $206. Kyle swears.

“Dude, I told you we were going to have to put stuff back.”

Stan hands over a card to the cashier. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kyle watches the payment exchange, expecting it to decline. It doesn’t and Stan steers the cart out to the car. Kyle wouldn’t be as suspicious if Stan wasn’t being so fucking weird.

“Hey,” Kyle says when he catches up to him. “How much did you actually save at your summer job?”

Stan flaps at Kyle for the keys, who throws them to him to open up the trunk. “I don’t know. A lot.”

“I thought you got minimum wage.”

“Yeah, and I worked a lot.” 

It’s true that Kyle saw significantly less of Stan that summer than any previous. He’d figured “long shifts” meant Stan was lying about getting fucked up with Kenny, but maybe he shouldn’t have doubted him.

* * *

Stan whips up his “world famous Kraft macaroni” and they eat it out of the pot up in Kyle’s room. At the computer, Kyle pulls up Facebook and starts making an invitation. December 23rd, 7 PM, Kyle’s house. Punch and pie. Stan shoves him away to take over, unimpressed by Kyle’s effort. He uses a picture of a cartoon Santa puking in a fireplace for the event header and changes the description to: _kyle’s parents are out of town, bring your A game. no entry without a christmas decoration._

“Dude,” Kyle objects.

“Come on, it’ll be hilarious, trust me. It’s not like anyone’s going to bring anything big.”

“Write that it’s BYOB.”

“No, then people won’t want to come.”

“Ok, well unless you have a fake ID and the cashier doesn’t know one of our parents—”

“Don’t you worry about a thing.” He pats Kyle’s shoulder and pulls out his cell. “I’ve got a guy.”

Kyle scrunches up his face. “You’ve _got a guy_? What does that even mean?”

Stan puts a finger to his lips as it rings. After a moment, “Hey! Kevin! What’s up?”

They only know two Kevins—a kid from their elementary school that moved to Utah in ninth grade and Kenny’s older brother. He’s fairly certain which one this is. 

“Yeah! No, I know, he’s so fucking stupid. Right.” He laughs. “Oh shit, for real? That’s dope, dude. Uh huh. Ha! Don’t worry, I’ll kick him in the balls next time I see him. Speaking of—”

Kyle sits and tries not to tear out his fingernails not being able to hear the other side of this conversation.

“Kyle’s having a party on Thursday—yeah,” he chuckles. “I know. His parents are gone. Yeah, seriously. Anyway, I was wondering if you could hook us up with booze. We’ll pay you, obviously.”

Kyle had not agreed to this. He would not have agreed to this under any circumstances.

“Oh dude, for real? Thank you. Seriously, thank you. And feel free to stay as long as you want when you come through. Yeah, he’ll be there. Come on, like Kenny’s gonna pass up a chance to get trashed.” 

Kyle was waiting to feel doomed about this party. It’s about as bad as he expected.

“Seriously dude, I can’t thank you enough. Cool. Well I’ll see you then. Oh yeah, you can totally bring her. Mhm. Sweet. Ok. Bye.” Stan pockets his phone and lifts his hands in triumph. “And that’s how it’s done!”

“That was Kenny’s brother?”

Stan is absorbed again adding people to the invite list. “Yeah, Kevin.”

“I didn’t know you guys were close.”

Stan snorts. “We’re not, he’s Kenny’s brother. I see him around.”

“Right.” Nevermind that he hasn’t lived with Kenny’s family in years.

“What? He’s a nice guy! And, he’s going to make sure the party doesn’t suck ass. You’re welcome.” 

Kyle resents this. “Where does he work?”

“I don’t know. A gas station, I think.”

Kyle is fairly certain that Kevin is also a drug dealer, but bringing that up would make him sound like his mother.

“Oh shit,” Stan taps his arm. “We’re getting responses already!”

Kyle looks over Stan’s shoulders—eleven people have already clicked attending. “That was fast.”

“Yeah dude, it’s Christmas, everyone wants to take a break from their families and get wasted. You’re doing a public service.”

Kyle thinks how he agreed to this party for the exact opposite reason—to help Stan not feel so lonely without his family at the holidays. They still need to have the conversation.

“There’s no way my mom isn’t going to find out about this.”

Stan flops back in the computer chair and sighs. “Can you just trust me? Please?”

It’s a little late to do anything else. 

* * *

Kyle knows it’s a bad decision but it’s just wine this time, some of the shitty bottles that his mom uses for cooking. They pass them back and forth over a drinking game they made for Mario Party. Stan forgets the rules halfway through and they start making them up—drink every time you lose, or get second place, or third or fourth or fifth. If you win you get to chug. By the time they crack open the second bottle Kyle’s fingertips are buzzing and his stomach feels uncomfortably full. They lose by a longshot against the CPUs, cheering when they’re tied for last place. Kyle can’t tell if it’s the drunkenness that makes Stan so touchy, or if drunkenness is making Kyle interpret every gesture as pointed. It’s normal to touch someone’s arm when you want to get their attention. Normal enough for knees to bump and overlap sitting cross-legged on the couch. Normal to drunkenly put your fingers in your best friend’s mouth when you’re trying to distract them as they beat you in a log roll game. If Kyle was still keeping score—which he isn’t—the _Does_ list would start to rival _Doesn’t_ in both length and credibility. 

“Oh hey, check it out.” Stan shows Kyle his phone, the event invite pulled up. All but three people have RSVP’d. Kyle grabs the phone from Stan and scrolls through the comments. A few variations of _Nice_ and _So excited!_ along with at least five _holy shit_ ’s and one _LOL._

“Is that good?”

“Yeah, dude.” Stan punches Kyle’s arm and leaves his fist there, kneading his knuckles into the fabric. “You might actually have a chance at prom king.”

Kyle punches him back. “Like I’d waste my money.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Jesus, this is why you need me. You’d have your head up a book’s ass all day if it wasn’t for me.” He can’t get through it without laughing.

“What? Dude, _what_?” Stan is the funniest person Kyle has ever met. Partly because he’s not really that funny, but his confidence adds a certain je nais se quois. This is one of those good aches, but it’s more bearable when intoxicated. 

“You know I’m right. You need me.” The end screen is playing on a loop, their characters weeping and hugging one another. 

“Um, so.” Kyle clears his throat. “Are you like, pretty drunk?”

Stan smirks. “I’ve got a healthy buzz going. How about you?”

“Yeah, I’m all good.” He is much more than good. “I guess I just wanted to know if you’re drunk enough to talk about it now.”

Stan visibly stiffens. “Talk about what?”

“Dude.”

They share a look and Kyle narrowly avoids breaking when Stan does first. He sighs and his shoulders droop, leaning back into the couch. 

“Alright.” He’s as impatient as he is resigned. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, just like. Whatever you want to say about it. You can—you know.” He gestures vaguely. “You can tell me anything, or whatever.” 

Stan laughs, hard. 

“Ugh, shut up, dude, I’m trying to be fucking sincere.”

“I know, I know.” Stan is still laughing but at least he’s trying to stop. “I’m sorry. That was just so fucking gay, dude.”

Kyle staunches this wound quickly. Stan doesn’t say shit like this often, but enough for Kyle to know how to react when it happens. 

He kicks him—be defensive, but not too much. “Answer the fucking question dude, I’m waiting.”

Stan throws his head back and chuckles in a way that sounds unnatural. “I mean, it sucks. What do you want me to say?”

Fair point. “Is your dad like…” How can Kyle phrase this without making it sound like he’s chicken shit? “...Cool with you being here?”

Stan huffs. “Doubt it. But he’s probably busy trying to get my mom back.”

“Have you talked to her?”

He shakes his head around a sip. “She always goes to my aunt’s house.” Fussing with the controller to turn it back to TV, just infomercials this time, no Christmas. 

Kyle’s throat is pinching in a way he doesn’t want to think about. “You really haven’t talked to anyone about this?”

“No, dude.”

“Not even Kenny?” The question’s transparency makes Kyle want to wring his own neck.

Stan hardly reacts. “He probably knows, so. What’s there to talk about?”

Kyle leans forward. “Stan.” After about ten seconds he’s able to force eye contact. 

“I don’t know, dude. We don’t talk about that stuff. I don’t ask him about his family and he doesn’t ask about mine. That’s how we like it.”

Why did Kyle think this was going to work? Drunk or not, Stan’s wall is fortified and resolute. Kyle is tucked into the opposite corner of the couch, arms around his knees. The only thing worse than being rejected like this is how obvious it is that he’s hurt.

Stan fidgets and grabs a pillow. “I don’t mean that I don’t want you to ask, or. Fuck, I sound like such an asshole.”

“No you don’t,” Kyle shrugs. “I get it.”

“Seriously, I’m not mad, I swear. I appreciate you checking in on me. For real. It’s just.” Stan laughs. “It’s just a huge fucking downer, you know? There’s not really anything I can do about it.”

While he’s already being rejected he might as well get it over with. “That’s not true, though.”

Stan frowns. “Seriously, dude?”

“Look, I was going to bring this up earlier, but I don’t think you should go home again. I—just let me finish, ok? We’re both going to Denver anyway, right?”

“—Kyle, I don’t _know_ that—”

“Yes, you do. CSU has like an 80% acceptance rate, you’ll be fine. All you need is a diploma, ok? They’re not discerning.”

Stan looks away, sighs. Stubborn fuck. “It’s not that simple.”

“Ok, fine. It’s not simple. I—I get that, it’s your family. That’s gotta be fucking awful, dude. But you can’t stay there. You can’t.” Stan won’t look back, but Kyle tries anyway. “Stan. Please?”

Stan rolls his eyes before closing them completely, scrunching his eyebrows in odd ways. Kyle is too hopeful, and it hurts to see Stan’s face say no. 

“Let’s just get through the break, ok? We’ll see what happens. It’ll be alright, dude.”

Kyle has reached terminal inebriation, finishing off the last sip of the bottle and plunking it down on the coffee table. He should be processing how hypocritical it is to drown his sorrows while condemning his best friend’s father who does the same thing. But he is drunk, drunker than he thought possible with just wine, and the revelation is lost on him. Still, it’s nice to not feel quite so injured or despaired. You know what’s actually gay? Asking your friend to live with you. In your room. Sharing your bed. God, he needs to get a fucking grip. Stan suggests they call in on one of the home shopping network lines and harass the host, and it’s just amusing enough to distract from everything else. 

They brush their teeth side by side at the sink. It’s not wide enough for both of them so Stan stands on the toilet seat, hunched over the sink from a height.

“Dude, don’t break my fucking toilet,” Kyle laughs as he spits. 

“Are you calling me fat?” Stan hits his head on the ceiling as he straightens. “Ow.”

“You’re not _fat_ , you’re just big boned.” This isn’t true even a little, but Kyle uses the excuse anyway to squeeze Stan’s bare calf. Stan had rolled up the ankles of his sweats because he was hot, and now it looks like he’s expecting flood waters. He’s warm. It’s nice.

Stan squints down at him. “You look like an ant.”

“And you look like a fucking dork, come on, get down.” Kyle smacks his calf as he lets go, realizing that his usual restraint is MIA. Don’t be a drunk idiot. Don’t be a touchy drunk idiot. Simple rule. Easy enough to follow. 

They head to Kyle’s bedroom without acknowledgment, Stan rattling off random trivia about Andre the Giant. All of Stan’s stuff is sitting at the foot of Kyle’s bed. He could say something about this, remind him that Ike’s room has a fairly new twin mattress he could have all to himself. Stan pulls off his shirt and slides into Kyle’s bed, still talking, arms crossed behind his head. 

“Did you know Samuel Beckett used to drive him to school?”

“Yes, you already said that. Twice.”

“You’re not psyched enough about this. You love plays and shit.”

“ _Plays and shit_ ? I did a scene from _A Doll’s House_ with your dumb girlfriend—once—because it was a requirement for the final. I don’t like fucking plays.”

Kyle does like plays, some of them anyway, just not that one. He and Wendy were paired up for the project and she decided on the play, the scene, the blocking, the costumes. Luckily he only had to wear a blazer and some fake glasses, meanwhile she put herself in full frilly 19th century get up. Of course she chose the scene where the wife stands up to her husband and tells him she won’t be controlled by him any longer. Every aspect of the scene was humiliating to Kyle. Wendy yelling at him in front of everyone, him pretending to be stern yet devastated, imagining a life where he’d be the kind of person who marries someone because of societal mandate. There is an ocean between Kyle and that man, and it’s surreally disappointing that his own priority is making sure nobody ever knows. 

Stan laughs. “Easy, dude, I’m just joking.” He sits up to watch Kyle shake out and stare at his pajamas. “I’m falling asleep here, will you turn off the light when you’re done?”

Kyle is stalling. It’s easy for Stan to undress like it’s nothing, but Kyle’s options are either wear just his stupid Lego boxers or get into his ill-fitting pajamas. He decides that he’d rather look like an idiot than risk Stan touching his bare abdomen at any point in the night. He turns off the light and changes in the darkness, thankful that Stan can’t see him. He can’t see Stan either, which is good in a pathetic sort of way. He’s only getting more sober, but he’s still drunk enough that he doesn’t trust himself. 

He climbs in bed, aware that his limbs are less controllable than usual. He jostles Stan enough to make him groan, mumble _night, dude_ before he’s dead to the world. Kyle isn’t tired per se, hovering closer to a twilight state of consciousness like when the four of them tried to lucid dream as kids. They were convinced if they all did it at the same time they could inhabit each other’s dreams and fly around together, or whatever popped into their heads. Kyle was scared and excited for Stan to see inside his mind. At the time, he didn’t have the vocabulary or self-awareness to articulate his fears. Stan breathes heavily—just a breath away from snoring—and Kyle tries to relax himself. He’s cold again and inches closer to Stan, hoping he’s not awake enough to be caught.

There are nights Kyle has spent in this bed with Stan beside him, trying to imagine as best he can how it would happen if it was going to happen. Being close like this is step one. Next, one of them makes some kind of move—verbal, physical, something—that makes Kyle turn toward Stan to face him. Here Stan usually cups his face, says something jokey. Even in his dreams Stan can’t be sincere about it. His neck and face flush with warmth as Stan leans in. This is about as far as he likes to go. Any further and it could result in real life problems for Kyle if Stan were to wake up. Plus, Kyle’s not exactly sure where it would go from there anyway.

His inexperience isn’t a secret, but he avoids the topic whenever possible. Especially in groups. Stan never really comments on it, steers the conversation to something else if someone asks Kyle about it directly, though he can’t tell if that’s kind or pitying. Despite being technically single for the past three-ish years, it hasn’t stopped Stan from forging ahead. 

To Kyle it felt like it came out of nowhere. They’d been at the park with Kenny, passing a joint between them while sitting on a wall. Kenny in the middle, Kyle on the end trying not to complain about how his part of the wall was damp and soaking through his pants. They’d already moved spots a few times to avoid cops and little kids. 

“So, did I tell you guys about last Friday?” Stan cleared his throat. Kyle could tell he was holding something back. Excitement?

“I was _with_ you, dumbass,” Kenny said. “I drove you to the party.”

“No shit, I know that, I meant after. You went back with that one girl and I stayed, remember?”

This is one disadvantage of Judaism. Any event on Friday nights is off limits. Kyle nodded along like he knew what they were talking about.

A grin crept onto Kenny’s face. “Wait. No—did you? Seriously?”

“What?” Kyle felt sick at the look the other two shared.

“Um,” Stan laughed like he wasn’t nervous and kept looking at Kenny. “Well. It happened.”

Kenny howled like a dog and started smacking Stan, got an arm around his neck and cheered. Ah. _That_ happened.

“And?” Kenny asked. “How was it?!”

Stan’s attempt to act casual failed. His ears turned red at the tips. “Good, I guess. I mean, I was pretty drunk.”

“Exactly how your first time should be,” Kenny sighed contentedly. “I’m proud of you dude. I was worried there for a second.”

“Why?” Kyle asked. They looked at him like they forgot he was there.

Kenny shrugged and took a hit. “I don’t know. I mean I thought he was kind of a pussy for not getting any from Wendy, but—”

“Hey,” Stan socked Kenny in the arm. “Leave her alone, she’s a nice girl.” It had been less than a year since Wendy dumped him. Maybe it still stung. Though, not enough to not fuck somebody else.

“I know she’s a nice girl. I was insulting you, dipshit.”

Stan had told Kyle snippets of what he and Wendy had done together, always when Kenny was around, leaving out most of the details other than what base they made it to. Kyle had been thankful at the time. Now he regretted not pressing it more, as he wasn’t even sure what amount of sexual contact he was supposed to have had by that age.

“Well, anyway. Yeah. It happened.” Stan seemed to have little else to say about it.

“Who was it?” Kyle asked. 

Stan and Kenny looked between themselves again, Kenny baring his teeth and shrugging at Stan.

“Um, just—don’t get mad, ok?” Stan could hardly keep eye contact.

“What? Why?”

“It’s not a big deal, it’s just…”

“It was Bebe,” Kenny blurted out. A look at Stan. “Sorry. You just gotta rip the band aid off, dude.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t know, Kyle,” Stan sighed. “It just happened.”

“Ok? So what? Why are you acting weird about it?”

“‘Cus that’s your ex, dude!” Kenny said. Stan gestured for the joint but Kenny didn’t hand it over. “That’s a code violation.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “She’s not my ex, we went on like three dates in seventh grade. That doesn’t count for shit.”

“Hey, man.” Kenny touched Kyle’s arm. “Don’t be down on yourself. It counts.” 

Kyle recoiled. “Guys! I don’t care about Bebe!”

They shared another look. Stan hung his head before sighing and facing Kyle. “Dude. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have even brought it up like this. That was fucked up of me. Seriously.”

They waited for a reaction, but Kyle’s face was still pure confusion. Then it hit him. The two of them had done him the courtesy of assuming he’d never gotten over Bebe, and that was why his love life was barren. She was indeed out of his league, as far as the South Park ecosystem was concerned, so no one could blame him for not making a move. He wouldn’t be the only guy in their class hung up on Bebe. But Kyle figured it had more to do with how he’d change the subject anytime his “relationship” with Bebe was brought up. Dodged questions about who he liked or why he hadn’t asked anyone out. There was also a chance they’d caught him “staring” at her since she happened to sit near or next to Stan in several of their classes that year. Ridiculous as the assumption was, Kyle supposed he should be grateful for it. At least they hadn’t assumed the truth. 

“Um, ok,” Kyle finally settled on. 

“Seriously,” Stan said. He looked emotional, jiggling his leg and chewing his lip. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

This wasn’t a promise he would keep, but Kyle was fine to let Stan guilt himself if it meant keeping his secret a little longer. The fact that Stan could pull Bebe meant he was “good” as the rumors went, or as good as can be expected from hammered teenagers throwing themselves at each other. Nelly and Bebe sat behind Kyle in math their junior year, and he overheard plenty of hushed anecdotes about Stan’s performance and endowment filtered through euphemisms and slang he didn’t totally understand. This is probably the most compelling evidence on the _Doesn’t_ list. If Stan can’t help himself from fucking someone he thinks his best friend is in love with, he must be really god damn straight. 

Kyle tries to remember this as he lies in the dark, willing away his arousal with despair. Some niggling hope won’t let him sleep. Stan is straight. Stan doesn’t want him like that. Kyle can never have him. But for the next six months, if he plays everything right, maybe he can have everything else.


	5. Wednesday

The sound shocks Kyle awake. It’s not dark but it’s dim, early morning, and someone is trying to break into his house. He shakes Stan who sits up when he hears it too. Hammering on the front door, then dull, loud thumps like someone throwing themselves against it. But if someone was breaking in, why would they be trying the front door while it’s light out?

_STAN_

They hear it echoing from both inside the house and out. Stan closes his eyes when it registers and puts his hands over his face.

_STAN GET THE FUCK OUT HERE NOW_

“Shit,” Kyle says. His neighbors aren’t used to this kind of thing—someone _will_ call the cops. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Stan’s voice is tired and his eyes are still scrunched shut. He opens them when his phone starts vibrating off-rhythm to the pounding downstairs. 

“Is that him?” Kyle goes to the window, holding onto his elbows. He could pull the curtain back to look who’s down there, but they could see him too.

Stan nods and shows Kyle the caller ID. Randy’s contact in Stan’s phone is just “Dick” which Kyle would laugh at if he weren’t terrified. 

“Just wait,” Stan says. “He’ll tire out eventually.”

Short of calling the police himself, Kyle’s not sure what else to do. They sit side by side against the headboard, mirrors of each other, hugging their knees and staring at nothing. After a few minutes Stan reaches over to grab Kyle’s phone from the bedside table. His is still pulsing with calls and texts every few seconds. He pulls up Angry Birds and Kyle leans to watch him play, willing himself to stop jumping every time it sounds like Randy’s broken through. 

_IF YOU DON’T GET DOWN HERE._ A kick at the door. _NOW_ . Then something louder. _I’M COMING IN._

“He doesn’t have a gun, right?” Kyle asks.

Stan’s face stays the same as he taps at Kyle’s phone—it’s been over ten minutes and his dad hasn’t shown any signs of stopping. “He wouldn’t bring it here.”

“ _What?”_ Kyle shouts before hushing himself. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He’s not going to go away. 

“It’s fine. He doesn’t even have ammo.”

“How do you know that?” Kyle hisses. “He could’ve got some since you left!”

“Just. Hold on a second.” His voice is far away and Kyle wants to trust him, but he can’t. His stomach is cramping and he’s sweating everywhere. Fear, hangover, Stan’s calf pressed against his own making him warm. Stan looks pale even in this little light, like he’s never slept in his life. 

“Stan,” Kyle says, taking his phone out of Stan’s hand. “I think. Um.” Randy is shouting obscenities that hardly make any sense, something about Stan’s gratefulness or lack thereof. “We need to do something. Like, now. My neighbors are going to call the cops.”

“Fine.” Stan says, picking up his phone and answering Randy’s call with a passive face. Kyle tries to grab it away but Stan’s already speaking. To his father, “Hello?” 

Kyle can hear the response through the windows and walls as well as he can through the phone. 

“What?” Stan asks, and Kyle gets it now. “What are you talking about?”

_Get the fuck outside right now, you little shit._ He sounds out of breath, snarling. _I know you’re here._

“I’m actually not.” Underneath the blanket Stan grabs onto Kyle’s ankle, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

_Don’t you fucking lie to me_ —

“Kyle just texted me that his neighbors called saying there’s a drunk idiot trying to break into their house. Is that you?”

_YOU DON’T FUCKING TALK TO ME LIKE_ —

“They’re in fucking Canada right now, asshole. I’m not fucking there. I’m telling Kyle to call the cops.”

_YOU LITTLE BITCH DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE. STAN!_ Wood cracking while Stan stays silent. _Piece of shit kid thinks he’s a fucking man what a fucking waste of space_ —

“Have fun in jail, dumbfuck.” Stan hangs up and exhales. Kyle won’t acknowledge the glint of moisture around Stan’s eyes when he looks at him. His leg is shaking enough that the whole mattress moves. Kyle thinks he might vomit on the bedspread but he’d rather bear it than move. One last crash that sounds like a rock hurled at the front door and then everything goes quiet. Stan goes to the window, pushes the curtains aside less than an inch. After a moment, he turns around and laughs as he breathes.

“Wow. I didn’t think that would actually work.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah.” Stan’s not ok, this is obvious. “Just, uh. Ha.” He swipes a hand over his eyes and down his face. “Sorry, by the way. I can go home tonight, it’ll be ok.”

“ _What?_ No! Are you insane?”

“Honestly, he’ll calm down if I go back. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to worry about this.”

“Dude.” Kyle stands and almost doubles over, then catches himself on the mattress. No more drinking, ever. He shuffles to Stan who’s staring at the carpet. “Stan. Hey.”

Standing in front of him, Kyle can’t get Stan to look up. He swallows down a spasm in his throat. “You’re not going back. Ok?” He places a hand on Stan’s shoulder. Still nothing. “Ok? I’m serious. I’m not going to let you.” 

Stan swipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm, sniffs. “I’m so fucking sick of this. He’s gonna come back.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’ll fucking fight him myself. Or you, if you try to go home.”

Stan huffs a wet laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know.” Serious again, Stan lowers his head. Kyle feels like he’s losing grip on some essential thread. In lieu of defending himself he pulls Stan into a hug. He expects Stan to be quiet and limp but he holds back just as tight, sniffing and steadying his breath. It’s only because he’s too sick to fight himself that Kyle stays like that, allowing himself to feel this, held and holding. 

“Besides,” Kyle says into Stan’s shoulder. “I can just puke on him if he tries to get near me.”

Kyle feels Stan’s laugh vibrating from his chest. “Should _I_ be worried about getting puked on?”

“Yeah, probably,” Kyle says and Stan steps back, chuckling. 

“Need someone to hold your hair back?”

“How do you deal with this? Seriously. How do you not want to die every morning?”

“I’m sorry,” Stan says, crossing the room to turn on the light. “No more drinking, I swear. Or like, not until the party.”

Right. The party. It feels deranged to throw any kind of celebration given the circumstances, but this is a fundamental difference between Kyle and Stan. Where Kyle likes to wallow and fixate on his problems, Stan wants to lose track of them between drinking and smoking and fucking people he doesn’t care about. Kyle can see the novelty of it but drinking makes him sick and there’s no one he doesn’t care about to fuck without exposing himself. That leaves smoking, but there’s no amount of high that can make him calm around his classmates. None of it really matters though, since this party isn’t for Kyle. Stan asked Kyle for a distraction, and at this point denying him would be cruel. He’ll find a way to cope later. 

“I’m gonna take a dump and then I’ll make breakfast—is that cool?” Stan says, leaning in the doorway.

“Mm. Yeah, great. Thanks for the play by play.”

Stan clicks his tongue and winks. “Anything for you.”

Kyle uses his parents’ bathroom and shockingly doesn’t puke. His stomach is still swimming, but there could be multiple causes for that. Proximity jitters and Randy crises aside, Kyle’s gut is leaden with guilt and regret. He splashes water on his face and tries to think how the gravity of Stan’s situation has escaped him for all these years. Some of it he can blame on being a kid, but he’s not an idiot. There were plenty of signs he never bothered to look closer at. He wonders what else Stan never told him, what other horrors Kyle’s been too wilfully ignorant to notice. Every time Stan has ever been late to school, fallen asleep during class or in conversation at lunch. Every time Stan has used _my parents are crazy_ to mean _my parents don’t love me enough to care what happens to me._ On second thought, he does need to puke. He dry heaves into the toilet and wishes there were more he could do. 

Stan heats up frozen burritos which actually does a lot for Kyle’s hangover. _I guess he would know,_ Kyle thinks. Should he be more worried about his inhibition lately? No—for once in his life Kyle can try giving a shit about someone else’s problems. Stan decides to shower and gives his clothes to Kyle through the door to wash. Just his head, bare shoulders and neck peek through. Kyle’s not too sick to feel something. 

“You can wear those today, if you want,” he says to Kyle. “I have like one other clean outfit, I think. Wash what you wore yesterday too. I think you should wear that to the party.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it looks good.” With that he shuts the door in Kyle’s face and seconds later the water turns on. Kyle takes the bundle of clothes to the laundry room and throws them in the washer. It’s too empty to start, really, so he goes back upstairs and knocks on the bathroom door. No answer, just the sound of the spray.

Kyle knocks again. “Dude?” Stan can’t hear, and he probably won’t notice, so Kyle opens the door and averts his eyes to the opposite wall from the shower.

“Dude!” Stan startles as soon as Kyle is inside. “What the fuck!”

“Sorry!” Kyle is glad his face is turned so Stan can’t see him blush through the frosted glass door. “I need to wash the towels, I’ll bring a fresh one up in a second.” He hurries out before Stan can vocalize his feelings on Kyle’s intrusion. The difficult part of devotion is not knowing what’s a giveaway and what’s given away by worrying if it’s obvious. 

Kyle packs the washer with the towels and pulls out Stan’s shirt. Disgusting as it is he can’t deny that he’d rather wear it unwashed. He presses it to his nose for exactly three seconds before dropping it back. He almost considers starting the wash without soap to preserve the scent, but that’s insane. Jesus. Get a grip. He grabs a towel from the linen closet and heads back. He’ll leave it outside the door this time, no need to make it weird. By the time he’s at the top of the stairs he’s decided that it was definitely weird to go in there. Why did he think it wouldn’t be? He swears all this alcohol is giving him brain damage. He places the towel beside the door and double-knocks at the same time that it opens, Stan damp and red-cheeked in front of him. 

“Oh hey, thanks,” he says. “Think you could…?” Stan nods at the towel on the floor. His body is hidden behind the door and from behind him Kyle catches a glimpse of Stan’s shoulder blades in the mirror, drops racing down the lines. 

“Oh. Yeah.” Kyle grabs the towel and throws it in Stan’s face, turns around to jog downstairs. Great save. He should start asking Ike for tips. 

* * *

An hour later Kyle is dressed in Stan’s clothes that no longer smell like him and they’ve finished a jumbo Doritos bag out of sheer boredom. The hangover is mostly gone, but the specter of it remains with Kyle. He made Stan promise they won’t drink tonight—which he agreed to easy enough, although Kyle wonders if he didn’t see a note of panic in his eyes. They’re watching an episode of _Maury_ centered around paternity tests, men whooping triumphantly at escaping fatherhood.

“Dude,” Stan announces, knocking Kyle in the side of the head as he stretches his arms. “I feel like I’m losing brain cells watching this.”

“You picked it, not me.”

Stan frowns. “I know it’s a good thing that there’s nothing to do right now, but… I don’t know. I’m just...”

“Bored?”

“Yeah.” Stan makes a face like he’s surprised by this.

“We’ve been sitting on the couch for three days, that’s pretty normal.”

“What should we do?”

Kyle thinks of his AP Psych grade, the essay that’s due the first day back. “There’s always homework,” he gives Stan a weak grin.

“Dude.”

“Fine. Um… I don’t know, what did we used to do when we were bored?” 

“Play video games?”

Kyle grunts. “My eyeballs are going to fall out if I keep looking at screens.”

They think in silence. Kyle doesn’t have room for boredom in his life much anymore, all of his free time sucked up by stress and obligations. Every time he thinks of something they could do he remembers that chores, schoolwork, and organizing are not recreational activities. 

“Do you remember when we used to ‘camp?’” Stan says, staring out the sliding door to the backyard.

Kyle gives him a look. “You mean when we’d pitch a tent in the backyard at 6 and be back inside by 10?”

“Remember when we did it in Kenny’s backyard in like, November? I swear to god I thought he was going to lose a toe.”

“Yeah, and then Cartman started that bonfire and we almost burned the house down.”

Stan laughs. “Oh shit, yeah. Good times, man.”

Kyle doesn’t think a visit from the fire department qualifies as a “good time,” but he sees the nostalgia in remembering a time when being grounded was as bad as life got. Stan gets up to stand in front of the glass, the snow outside reflecting soft light back onto his face. He looks back at Kyle, and before he can even ask, Kyle knows that this will end with them cold, wet and shivering. But it’s not like there’s really anything better to do. 

First they raid the closets. Ike has a scarf or two he left behind, hand-me-downs from Kyle. In his parents’ bedroom, they dig through the closet and pull out anything they can layer. Stan opens a drawer, stares for a second, then closes it and tells Kyle to never, ever open it himself. Kyle doesn’t need to be told twice, and they trudge out into the middle of the backyard, bundled and stiff. Kyle dons his mother’s leggings under a stretched pair of Ike’s snow pants, then three layered long sleeve shirts and a bright purple overcoat of his mother’s. Stan wears a mishmash of layered shirts and strategically-wound scarves around his arms and legs. Stan takes a picture of Kyle when he’s not looking and Kyle retaliates with a snowball to the neck. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Stan says, squirming in his shirts. “That’s fucking _cold,_ dude.”

“Uh huh. That’s kinda snow’s whole thing.”

Stan kneels into the snow and starts forming a pile, sitting back and eyeing it occasionally.

“Whatcha working on?” Kyle asks, kneeling down beside him.

“You’ll see. Don’t watch, make your own thing.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and begins packing together a crude snowman. He’s not much of a sculptor and by the time he’s finished his creation looks like it sustained a major head injury. He digs into the dead grass and dirt beneath the snow to make hair and eyes. It’s squat and deranged—he names it Cartman.

“Ha!” Stan snorts when he turns around to look. “Dead ringer.”

“Are you done yet, dude?”

“Gimme a second, I just need…” Stan pats down his sculpture, blocking it from Kyle’s view with his body. “And… Perfect!” He moves aside and beams at Kyle. Sticking up out of the snow is a two foot tall snow penis with testicles the size of basketballs. 

Kyle laughs loudly before covering his mouth in shock. “Dude!”

“It’s Mr. Spanky, the Christmas Schlong.” Stan puts on the voice, “ _Howdy Hoes!_ ”

“How can he talk?” Kyle asks through a laughing fit. “He doesn’t even have a face.” 

“Oh fuck, you’re right. Ummmm…” Stan looks to the ground around him and uses leaves and twigs to make a slanted puny face. “There we go. _Well howdy, Kyle, wanna suck me off?_ ”

“You fucking perv,” Kyle shoves Stan and takes out his phone, opens the camera.

“Make sure you get the balls in there,” Stan says. 

“No way dude,” Kyle snaps the picture so just the heads of their snowmen are visible. “I’m sending this to my mom.”

“Ugh, sick, dude.”

Kyle groans. “She keeps asking me to check in, this will look normal.” He sends the photo in a text with a smiley face, _miss you guys!_

“What did you say we’ve been doing?”

In honesty, very little. Most of her texts and calls have gone unanswered as Kyle is either too anxious or inebriated to come up with a decent response. Her messages have started sounding more threatening the longer he sends one sentence replies, so hopefully this will curb her ire.

“Oh, you know,” Kyle says. “Just normal shit. Blood orgies, that kind of thing.”

“Cool, cool. That’s good. Don’t want her to think we’re up to no good. I mean,” he pauses and gives Kyle a look, leaning against Mr. Spanky like he’s an old pal. “It _is_ Christmas after all.” 

_What’s wrong with the one on the left?_ Kyle’s mom responds. Yikes. Maybe the mushroom tip is more obvious than Kyle thought. He puts his phone away as his fingers are getting too numb to control well anyway.

“So,” Kyle clears his throat. “Speaking of Christmas—what are we doing that day?”

“Um, well I’m getting your present from Kenny tomorrow, so—”

“Is it weed?”

Stan smirks. “Yeah, it’s weed.”

“Excellent.” He means this. Weed is both expensive and difficult to buy, so the present is more about giving him peace of mind than the actual drug itself. “I got you something too, so you can open it then, I guess.” 

“Ah fuck,” Stan says. “You probably got me something actually thoughtful, didn’t you?”

“No.” He did. A strategy board game that Stan keeps saying is too expensive and needs too many people to bother spending money on, but Kyle knows that he wants it pretty bad. Worth the three months allowance. 

Stan smiles. “You’re such a bad liar.”

“So, um,” Kyle needs a diversion, his red face is probably even more obvious against all the white. “Do you have like, any traditions or stuff you wanna do?”

Stan makes a face. “Traditions?”

“I don’t know, dude! You people do the weirdest random shit for your holidays. Trees inside? Magical old guy that you leave real food out for?”

Stan is laughing. “It’s not _that_ weird.”

“You’re in too deep, you can’t see it objectively.”

“Well, to answer your question, no, I don’t have any traditions. You’re there most of the time on Christmas anyway.”

“Yeah, but that’s later, I don’t watch you open presents or anything.”

Stan shrugs. “You’re not missing much.”

Kyle’s only Christmas tradition is visiting Stan around lunchtime, going over his haul and playing Stan’s new games together. Sometimes when Hanukkah and Christmas overlap Stan even comes over to Kyle’s to celebrate with the Broflovskis afterward. Kyle’s favorite Christmas to date was in eighth grade, when Stan and Kyle’s parents went in on a gaming system for them to share. Kyle got to pull the present out from under the tree when he arrived and unwrap it with Stan, grappling at the box and shrieking in each other’s faces. They spent six straight hours playing at Stan’s house, then went back to Kyle’s for Hanukkah and to play another five hours before they fell asleep on Kyle’s bed with their backs pressed to the wall, controllers in hand. They spent the next four days together, only separating to shower, use the bathroom, and occasionally sleep. It’s been a while since they’ve cared about the same thing like that; Kyle sometimes wonders what’s really kept them close for this long. 

“Is Shelly staying at school, or…?” Kyle asks. Despite her hulking presence in their childhood, these days he often forgets there’s another member of the Marsh family.

“I guess? She usually does.” He’s trying for nonchalant and failing.

“When’s the last time you talked to her?”

“Um,” Stan pulls out his phone, scrolling through messages. “I think she texted me on my birthday… or maybe that was last year. I don’t know.”

“Oh. Shit. I didn’t know it was that bad. Does she ever come back?”

“Not really. I haven’t seen her since her freshman year.”

“Wait, you mean when she came for Christmas that one time?” The day after the sophomore winter ball. Stan pissed that he couldn’t stay the night at Kyle’s.

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“What happened?”

Stan leans back on his elbows; Kyle wonders how he isn’t shivering for how wet he’s gotten. “I don’t know the whole story, but, you know.” Stan swallows, puts on his trademark _it’s not awful if I’m laughing about it_ smile. “My dad. He just pushes her buttons. I guess the night before she was going to drive back to school my dad crashed her car. Like, on purpose.”

“ _What_?” 

“No one got hurt or anything, but I guess her car was totaled. It was a piece of shit car to begin with, so. Driving it into a ditch was enough to kill it.”

“Where was Shelly?”

“Oh, she was in the car. One of them tried to grab the wheel… I don’t know. They both tell it differently.”

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah.” Stan’s smile is gone, which is oddly encouraging. “But that wasn’t even really it. When they got back Shelly and my mom got into this _huge_ fight. I mean, like, massive. It was really bad.” 

Kyle thinks of the fight the other night and considers what Stan might mean by ‘bad.’ “About what?”

Stan sighs. “She just… Shelly doesn’t respect her. My mom will never, ever leave my dad. Not permanently. And it drives Shelly crazy, so… That’s it. She doesn’t visit and they don’t talk.”

“What about you guys?”

“We text sometimes. Mostly just like, hey happy birthday, that kind of stuff.”

Stan idly nods his head, staring into the gray sky while Kyle blushes with rage. How could she do that? How could anyone leave a kid alone with those people? 

“...Are you good, dude?” Stan asks after a minute. 

“Yeah, that’s just pretty fucked up of her to leave you like that.” Kyle’s tone is pinched, it’s the most he can manage without screaming. 

Stan exhales—he’s clearly resigned himself to this. “Can you really blame her?”

“Yes.”

Stan laughs. “Don’t. I’d do the same thing if I was her.”

“Do you respect her?”

“Who? Shelly?”

“Your mom.”

“Oh.”

“Why doesn’t she leave him? They clearly hate each other.”

“That’s the thing though,” Stan sits up, grabbing fistfuls of snow and crunching it between his fingers. “They don’t hate each other. No, I’m serious, they don’t. They really do love each other, they just—” Stan bites at his cheeks, flipping between several expressions. “They just don’t work as a couple, you know?”

“Then she should leave. Or he should leave. Why stay and be unhappy?” 

Stan shrugs. “I guess I just feel bad for her. Imagine realizing at 40 years old that you’d done your whole life wrong. Husband, house, kids, job, all this shit that just makes you miserable. I mean, do you think you’d be able to just start over?”

Kyle doesn’t know. He hopes he’ll be too self-aware to ever find himself in that position. 

“I used to be mad at her for it,” Stan continues. “But I can see her point of view. As soon as she admits it was a mistake then that’s when she’s finally doomed.”

“That doesn’t make it ok,” Kyle says, unable to contain his contempt. “You’re their kid. Their responsibility is supposed to be taking care of you, doing what’s best _for you_ , no matter what. The second you have a kid, your own happiness doesn’t matter anymore.”

“And that’s why I’m never having kids.”

“I’m being serious, Stan! This is fucked up. This is really fucked up.”

“Hey, Kyle, it’s gonna be ok—”

“No it’s not! You can’t just act like everything’s fine when it’s not fine!”

Stan hugs him while he continues to yell about the injustice of it all, patting his back and telling him in a calm voice that it’s all going to be alright. 

“Stan, can you just—I’m trying to be serious right now. You need someone looking out for your safety and happiness. You need a real parent.” 

Stan lets go of him and despite Kyle’s pleas he seems calmer than he has been in weeks. He holds Kyle by the shoulders, shaking him lightly.

“Kyle. Listen to me. I’m going to be ok. Got it?”

“Yes. Got it.” It’s easier to say yes and make Stan stop staring at him like that than to keep arguing. 

“Besides,” Stan says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve got you for all that stuff.”

“Gee, thanks,” Kyle sneers. “I love being a surrogate mother.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Kyle wonders what he did mean exactly. That Kyle makes it his responsibility to make sure Stan is safe and happy, or that Kyle himself makes Stan safe and happy? Both options make his guts squirm, rueful and hopeful.

“Um, thanks, by the way,” Stan says, standing and brushing snow off his pants. “I don’t really like talking about this stuff usually.”

“I know,” Kyle says and stands. Air hits the wet parts of his clothes, making him shake under his layers. 

“Seriously, you’re way more chill about this than I thought you’d be.”

“Dude, you’ve gotta stop insulting me when you’re trying to compliment me.” 

“Ok, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let me compliment you. And I mean this genuinely. Kyle—” Stan puts one hand on his shoulder, and with the other pulls a wad of snow from his pocket and smears it on Kyle’s head. “This color looks great on you.”

Kyle winces and pulls from Stan as he mushes the snow along his scalp and down the back of his neck. Without even seeing himself Kyle knows his hair is dusted almost completely white by the end of the scuffle.

“Are you happy now?” Kyle deadpans. 

Stan is in stitches. “Oh my god. You look like a poodle. Wait, where’s my phone?”

“I’m gonna kill you, Marsh.”

Stan snaps a picture, wiping a tear from his eye. “No, no, seriously, you look great.” More laughter. Very convincing. “You’re gonna be a real silver fox one day. Watch out, retirement home ladies.”

“Ew, sick,” Kyle says. Too obvious?

“For real though, watch out. Those places are full of STDs.”

“Cool, I’ll remember to wash my dick after I pork your grandma.”

“My grandma’s dead, dude, nice try.”

“Do you want to join her?”

Stan ruffles Kyle’s hair, telling him to stay still as he brushes the snow out. “Alright, you’re young again. Let’s get inside, my balls are freezing off.”

When they’re inside Kyle realizes he has a splinter in his thumb, probably from mashing his fingers into the dirt for snowman hair, and Stan volunteers to remove it for him. They huddle under the bathroom light with tweezers, Stan gripping Kyle’s thumb between two fingers and biting his tongue as he focuses his eyes on the splinter. Kyle notices a distinct and foreign silence between their exchanges, more like pausing, waiting to exhale. The tweezer digs under a narrow flap of Kyle’s skin and he hisses, pulling his hand away.

“Don’t move,” Stan instructs, keeping Kyle’s hand steady. “Almost got it…”

If Kyle looks up they’ll be face to face. He keeps his eyes down, flashbacks of Clyde’s party returning to him. 

“There!” Stan pulls out the splinter in one painful yank, presenting it to Kyle. “You’re welcome.” He blows it at Kyle’s face.

“Eugh. Thanks?”

“See? We take turns being the mom.”

Stan needs to stop equating them to family or Kyle’s going to lose hope entirely. He already has a well-educated dread that he will turn out exactly like his mother—nagging, overbearing, self-righteous, oblivious—and that this is why he will never be loved. 

“Come on,” Stan pulls Kyle out of the bathroom. “I’m making pizza bagels.” 

They watch _Home Alone_ over dinner and Kyle keeps a counter for every time someone should’ve died. This is probably the only Christmas movie he genuinely likes, and even then, the heavy-handed “goodwill to all in the name of Jesus” sprinkled throughout makes him groan. Kyle is surprised and pleased that their talk earlier didn’t bring the mood down. He was ready to break the night’s sobriety rule if things got too awkward, Stan retreating into himself again at any mention of his home life. In fact, Stan is feeling breezy enough to bring out his guitar, strumming chords at random over the last half of the movie. 

Kyle thinks he recognizes Stan playing the first bars of The Twelve Days of Christmas. “Oh god, not that one.”

“Shh. Hold on.” Stan bites his tongue, squinting at the neck of his guitar like the shapes his hand is making are actually painful. He strums again. “No—fuck!” He smiles, hollow clap to the guitar body making the strings twang. “I almost had it, dude.”

“How about an original?” Kyle smirks, nudging his toe against Stan’s sole.

“You wish,” Stan snorts and tries the chord again, correctly this time.

When Stan got a guitar in the fourth grade, Kyle thought they were going to be rock stars. Kyle couldn’t play anything, but lots of people in bands can’t. Stan’s always had a penchant for songwriting, even back then, but his reluctance to publicly perform eventually put an end to their dreams of stardom. Since high school Kyle has been vaguely aware of songs that Stan has written, overheard when he thought Kyle was still in the bathroom or listening to his headphones. Stan plays them softly, little more than humming along, whispering unintelligible words under his breath. 

“How about the bullying song?” Kyle offers. “Or what about the hybrid cars one?”

“Oh god, dude.” Stan laughs. “How do you remember those? I don’t even remember and I wrote them.”

“Yeah you do, it was something like—” Kyle hums a little, peppering in the words he can recall. “People now, let’s kick bullying’s ass… Something like that, right?” 

Stan half-starts a few chords, clipping the sound with his hand as he switches between them. “Fuck, no, maybe—”

“Or how about that one you made for the periodic table? Or the quadratic equation.”

One of the only ways Kyle can get Stan to study with him is if he lets Stan spend the majority of the time dicking around on his guitar, coming up with “memory devices'' to help them cram. They actually do work, mostly, and Kyle knows Stan will just look at someone else’s test for the stuff he didn’t memorize. He suspects that Stan lies about forgetting the songs, though he wishes he wouldn’t. Jokey or not, Stan has a nice voice when he actually tries, and Kyle would pay Stan real American dollars to perform for him if it that weren’t creepy. 

“Then… I don’t know.” Kyle sits forward and flicks Stan’s arm. “Write a new one.”

“Oh sure, I’ll get right on that. Very easy to do, especially with a movie and score playing in the background.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s pushing it, other than he wants to chase the shy smile Stan keeps pressing down. 

“Come on,” he says, Stan strumming nonsense chord progressions again. “You’ve got songs about everything. Write a Kyle song.”

Plucking out an unfamiliar melody, Stan answers, “Who says I haven’t already?”

Kyle sputters. “Have you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Stan smirks, punching out a series of quick chord changes.

“Yeah, that’s why I asked.”

“Do you hear that?” Stan mutes the neck with his hands, then strums the open strings. “That weird little…” He lifts the guitar closer to his ear, repeating the strumming process. Kyle can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, wondering if Stan is just stalling. “Oh, shit, wait.” He turns the guitar upside down and shakes it side to side, eyeing the opening. Something crinkly rattles inside, and after a hearty shake a sandwich bag falls from the hole.

“Nice!” Stan says, picking it up. “I was wondering where I put that.”

A bag of weed with some shake and a half-smoked joint crumpled into a cloudy Ziploc. Kyle would be lying if he said it wasn’t enticing.

“Well?” Stan asks, smiling ear to ear and jiggling it near Kyle’s face. “You only said no drinking, right? This isn’t drinking.”

Kyle sighs. Things are going well, why push it? Except Kyle wants to push. There’s just enough plausible deniability to convince himself that it’s not hope he’s nurturing, just peace of mind. What better way to distract himself from the increasing difficulty to look at Stan without blushing? To casually bump their limbs on the sofa and have it not burn his skin? This will make it better, he thinks. Just better. However that manifests.

They start with the shake, passing a pipe back and forth that Stan had stashed in his guitar case. Some god awful Tim Allen Christmas movie comes on but they let it run, ripping it apart as they get higher and giggly. 

“So is the Kyle song serious?” He asks Stan, turning his head to blow the smoke away from them. It’s too cold to crack a window, so Kyle hopes the smell will dissipate before his parents’ return. 

Stan scoffs. “When have I ever written a serious song?”

“Bull shit, you must have at some point. Remember when you were all goth for a second? You didn’t write an emo song about your feelings?”

“No, asshole,” Stan grabs back the pipe, though he’s smiling. “Or maybe I did, but you know. Life’s not that bad at ten years old.” His voice is strained from holding smoke in his lungs while he speaks. He laughs at a gag on the screen and exhales it all in Kyle’s direction. “I was probably just talking shit.”

Kyle doesn’t want to contradict him, though he doubts things were peachy for Stan even at ten. “Like every other musician isn’t just talking shit.”

“Alright, fine. Here’s a shitty Kyle song, are you ready?”

Kyle sits up, faces Stan on the couch. He’s glad they smoked, his heart would be jackhammering otherwise. “Hell yeah. Go for it.”

“Alright, here goes.” Stan lets one chord ring out, then starts in. “ _Kyle Kyle Kyle, I made you out of clay. And when you’re dry and ready, Kyle I shall play._ ” 

“Oh god,” Kyle kicks him as Stan repeats the melody. Many versions of this song have been sung to him over the years, mostly variations of _dreidel’s fucking gay_ or sometimes _Kyle is so gay/lame/insert insult here._ “How exactly do you play the Kyle?”

“The Kyle is a percussion instrument,” Stan says, leaning over. “So it’s kinda like—” He begins drumming on Kyle’s arms and face and chest like bongos, Kyle slapping him away. “Hold on dude, let me do my solo.” 

Kyle goes still while Stan beats out a quick rhythm on the top of his head. He’s aware that he can’t stop smiling, but Stan is too. Why does he ever worry about this stuff? Stan doesn’t balk when Kyle grabs him by the wrists and wrestles his drumming hands into submission, forcing Stan to sit on them.

“Hands to yourself, drummer boy.”

Stan snorts. “You know that’s a Christmas song, right?”

“There’s a Christmas song called _Hands to Yourself Drummer Boy_?” 

“No, asshat. But I think I can actually play that one, it’s like three chords max.”

Kyle leans his face against his hand, propped against the pillows and watches Stan. His hair isn’t greasy for once, mussed pieces falling in front of his eyes as he plays. He really does have a nice voice, and Kyle would say this to him if he didn’t know that it would spook Stan. They’re too shy for praise, Kyle to give it and Stan to receive it. He opts instead for watching Stan’s fingers move down the neck, the way he bobs his head with the rhythm and smiles when he forgets a lyric. Kyle feels full to brimming with lightness inside his chest and head. It could be this. If Stan ever said yes, and if Kyle ever asked, this is what it could be. 

Stan speeds up the last few bars faster and faster until he’s just talking the words. “Ra pa pum pum, me and my drum. The end.”

Kyle golf claps and nods at him. “Bravo.”

“That song actually kind of fucking sucks,” Stan laughs, taking another hit.

“Dude, quit bogarting the pipe.” Kyle gestures for it and Stan coughs over an apology.

“My bad. Look at you, man,” Stan leans back to appraise Kyle. “Taking hits like a champ.”

Kyle croaks, “Fuck you,” and kicks him for good measure. Stan catches his foot.

“Do you remember the first time you smoked? The winter dance—that was like, what, three years ago?

“Two.” Kyle looks away but can’t help himself, glancing back after just a few seconds. 

Stan adjusts his grip on Kyle’s foot, smiling in reverie. “You were so nervous.”

“No I wasn’t! What are you talking about?”

“You were totally nervous.” Stan’s grip tightens and a knuckle in Kyle’s toe pops. “I know you better than anyone, dude. I can tell when you’re nervous.”

Can he tell that Kyle’s nervous right now? “Whatever. I was also drunk. And being crossfaded sucks.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stan takes back the pipe. “I had a great time.” He blows a stream of smoke directly at Kyle’s face. 

“Weren’t you like, devastated by Wendy dumping you?”

Stan shrugs, knocking ash from the pipe onto his empty plate. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember being that sad about it.”

“Dude, you were practically crying and begging me to go with you so you wouldn’t look pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t have said yes otherwise.” Stan says this casually, as if it doesn’t rework Kyle’s entire understanding of that night. “Plus, how else was everyone gonna see that adorable little bar mitzvah outfit of yours?” He puts on a Sheila Broflovski voice at the end, pulling the half-joint from the bag. 

Kyle is surprised that Stan remembers his outfit at all until a memory of his own unlocks, how Stan kept the photo of them in Kyle’s living room as his phone screensaver for weeks until he got back with Wendy. It felt like something at the time, then irrelevant, and now important again. 

Stan hums around the joint, struggling to light it. “I don’t know that this is really going to be enough for both of us.”

Kyle scoffs. “Then hand it over.” 

“One second.”

“No, dude, you don’t get to hog it all.” Kyle climbs over Stan who holds it out of his reach.

“Ok, ok, hold on.” He presses a gentle hand to Kyle’s shoulder, guiding him back against the couch. “We can share. I’ll shotgun you.”

“What’s that?” 

Stan chuckles, shaking his head. “Just. I’ll show you, ok? But you have to close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me!”

“Like fuck, dude!”

“I promise I won’t do anything weird, ok? I promise. Just sit back and close your eyes.”

Kyle does as he’s told, his cheeks and neck buzzing. He’s as high as he needs to be, really, he doesn’t need another hit. He feels around in the dark until his hand lands on Stan’s knee, leaving it there.

“Alright,” Stan says from somewhere in front of Kyle. “So you’re gonna inhale with your mouth when I tell you to, got it? I’ll tap you. Just a big breath in. And don’t open your eyes before that.”

“I swear to god dude, if this is a trick—”

“It’s not a trick. I want you to be high as much as you do. Just trust me.” 

Kyle goes quiet and feels Stan’s proximity by warmth alone. Stan inhaling on the joint, then a tap on Kyle’s thigh after a moment. Kyle sucks in a breath and smoke fills his lungs, weaker than if he’d taken a hit, but decent enough. He holds it in until he feels the familiar burn then exhales. When Kyle opens his eyes Stan is closer than he was before he closed them. 

“Um,” Kyle bites down a laugh. This might be the highest he’s ever been. “So that’s shotgunning?”

“Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Did you just blow smoke in my mouth?”

“Pretty much.” He lights the joint, snapping his fingers at Kyle. “Close your eyes again.”

They repeat the process twice, Stan leaning his shoulder against Kyle’s on the second hit. The contact is gone by the time Kyle opens his eyes. 

“Kenny was the one who showed me,” Stan says, dropping a sour note into Kyle’s gut. “Or I saw him do it, I guess. With Red, maybe? I don’t know. Somebody. He swears by it, apparently.”

Kyle snorts. “He would.”

“Close your eyes,” Stan struggles with the lighter.

“Why do I have to keep closing my eyes?” Kyle laughs. 

Stan shrugs, the tip of the joint glowing as he inhales. Kyle is immovable as Stan leans in, nodding at Kyle to open this mouth. He does and wills his eyes to stay open, watch as Stan’s lips part. He expects Stan to move back when Kyle exhales but he doesn’t, hovering near. Kyle breaks eye contact, laughs, and Stan takes another hit, moving back in quicker this time. Kyle’s eyes slip closed and he has no breath to let in or out. 

Then pain. “Fuck!” Kyle shouts, his whole body jerking from the cutting jab of pain on his arm. 

“Shit!” Stan moves back, off the couch, dropping the joint on the floor. Kyle clutches at his arm, hissing before daring to look. A red blistered mark just above his elbow, pulsing with pain. In distraction, Stan had let the burning joint in his hand connect with Kyle’s skin, branding him with the tip.

“Oh fuck, dude,” Stan covers his mouth. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry Kyle, shit.”

“God,” Kyle grits his teeth against the pain. He’s burned his hands on stovetops before but it’s never felt like this. “Fucking fuck that hurts so fucking bad.”

“Come here.” Stan hauls Kyle up and takes him to the bathroom, shoving his arm under a stream of cold sink water. This hurts more than just letting it sit, and Kyle keeps taking it out only for Stan to shove it back under the spray. Kyle is too dizzy from weed and pain to really help Stan, who’s digging under the sink and through cabinets looking for first aid. He lands on a crusty tube of Neosporin and a collection of bandages only big enough for papercuts. 

“I’m so sorry,” Stan keeps repeating as he slathers on too much ointment, placing and replacing bandages as they slip off his skin from the goo. Kyle wonders which part he’s sorry for. Emotional whiplash is making it difficult to parse his thoughts and feelings on the last ten minutes. It still feels like he can’t really breathe. Stan blows on the burn a few times, eyes flicking to Kyle’s face as he gauges his pain. Kyle bears it—what else can he do—swearing and hissing until Stan has finished bandaging him. Four tiny ones layered over each other like an asterisk. It’ll do. 

“Ok,” Stan exhales, stepping back from Kyle sitting on the toilet seat. “I think that’s the most we can do. Are you ok? No, of course you’re not ok. Fuck. I’m really sorry, dude. Seriously.”

“It’s fine,” Kyle says, stomach twisting.

“Are you still high?”

“No shit, I’m still high!” Kyle doesn’t mean to sound angry, he just— He can’t form the words for what he wants to say, thoughts rebooting every half second. “I can’t think, dude.”

“Me either,” Stan leans against the sink and chuckles. “I thought that would’ve sobered me up.”

“Me too.” Kyle swallows, struggling to formulate a single thought. “I—What are we doing? What’s going on?”

Stan looks at his phone. “It’s kinda late. We could go to sleep.”

That’s not what Kyle meant. “But what are we doing?”

Stan stares at him a moment, waiting for something. “Are you ok? You look kinda bad.”

“Thanks.” Glassy pain in his head, everything fizzy and tilting. His stomach lurches. “Fuck, dude, I feel sick.”

“Bed. Let’s just go to bed.” 

Stan helps Kyle into his pajamas, all the movement making him more nauseous with each passing second. Kyle apologizes but Stan shushes him, tells him it’s fine, more than fine. Kyle can tell Stan is just as high as he is, but his tolerance allows him not to tip over into sickness. Maybe partying was the answer all along. If Kyle had done that instead of being a nerd he wouldn’t be embarrassing himself like this, acting like a big fucking baby.

“Dude,” Stan grabs Kyle by the shoulders. Kyle hadn’t realized he’d said that thought aloud. “I don’t care. You’re not embarrassing yourself. I got you too high. Lie down, I’ll be there in a second.” He pushes Kyle’s hair off his forehead, feeling the skin with the back of his palm. 

Kyle hums, falling back into his bed and curling on his side. After the vertigo subsides, he tells Stan changing at the foot of the bed, “You know you can sleep in Ike’s room, if you want.”

Stan huffs. “Gross. Like I want to sleep in the bed where your little brother jerks off.”

Kyle doesn’t mention that this is the bed _he_ jerks off in, assuming Stan must know and not care. It’s nice until it confuses him again, pain and nausea mixing with elation. Why is this happening? Why is Stan so sorry?

Stan shuts the light off and climbs into bed, scooting onto his side to face Kyle.

“Where are you?” He asks into the dark, feeling around until his palm connects with Kyle’s nose. 

“Mmph. Dude.”

“There you are.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“I’m really sorry, Kyle.”

“It’s fine.” _Stop saying sorry_ , he thinks, high enough to hope that maybe if he meditates on it the message will get through to Stan. 

They go quiet while Kyle shuts his eyes against the dark, reminding himself that he is sitting still, lying flat, the ground beneath him is solid. A fresh wave of vertigo washes over him each time Stan squirms and readjusts on the mattress. He would tell him to stop if it weren’t for Stan getting closer to him each time, his nose tickling Kyle’s shoulder at one point.

“Does it still hurt?” Stan sighs against him.

“Yeah,” Kyle answers. He feels like he has more to say, something important to articulate but it escapes him each time he gets close. “Yeah it fucking hurts.” 

Stan is quiet then giggles, shuffling down on the bed. “It’s this arm, right?” He touches Kyle’s wrist. “Where is it?” Then in Sheila’s voice, “Oh bubbeh, do you want me to kiss it better?”

Kyle snorts, “What?” Not the person he wants to be thinking of right now. Then a soft, warm sensation against his elbow.

“Wait,” Stan whispers, and Kyle can feel his smile against his arm. He kisses up Kyle’s forearm, quick and shy at first, slowing and lingering as he gets closer to the burn.

“Stan.” 

Stan’s nose brushes against the bandage, which hurts a little, pausing before kissing Kyle’s arm again, slow, deliberate.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asks. This is the thought that keeps eluding him, slipping out of reach each time he tries to grasp it. _Fuck,_ he thinks. _Why did I ask? Now I’ll know._

Stan goes still then snuffs his laughter against Kyle’s skin. He lifts his head and nudges it into Kyle’s side, giggling and snorting. “I’m so fucking high right now, dude.”

“What was that?”

“It’s like I’m in a tunnel or something.” He knocks on Kyle’s sternum. “Hello? Are you in there?”

“What?”

Stan hiccups laughter in response and rolls over, a clear line of space between their bodies. He’s either asleep or pretending to be asleep, refusing Kyle’s question either way. Kyle’s good feelings swirl and blend with the bad ones, allowing him to feel neither truly happy nor truly sad as he drifts into the dark ether. Before losing consciousness he remembers how awful tomorrow will be, and is thankful for any remainder of today he can cling to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my stoner side jumped out in this chapter im so sorry


	6. Thursday

It’s refreshing to wake up without a hangover for once, and with a generous thirteen hours of sleep under his belt. It was roughly 11pm when Kyle drifted off last night, and now it’s noon, light leaking through the curtains so that it’s fairly bright in his room. Stan breathes evenly, scrunched onto the opposite side of the bed. Kyle slips out to the bathroom, thankful for an excuse to be alone. He leaves the medicine cabinet open as he brushes his teeth to avoid the mirror. Arguably, Kyle should look better this morning than any other day this week, but he’s afraid to see how doomed he feels reflecting back at him. 

He’s starving and pours a bowl of sugary cereal he never would’ve picked out for himself. Eats it on the couch, volume low so as not to wake Stan but loud enough to not fixate on his own thoughts. The sugar melts into the milk and he’s left with limp waterlogged lumps floating in the bowl. Flips to a news channel, something depressing to lose himself in. It’s only a matter of time until Stan wakes up, and Kyle needs to sort himself out before that happens, but he does his best to delay the inevitable. Dread creeps in with the weather forecast. 

The way he sees it, there are three explanations for last night. In order of least to most likely:

  * Stan actually does like him and was trying to make a move
  * Stan is oblivious and really was so high he didn’t realize what he was doing
  * Stan knows about Kyle’s feelings—how could he not?—and was high and curious enough to push him 



This last one feels closest to reality. If Stan really liked him he would have said something, or at least made some indication over the last eighteen years that he likes guys in any way. The major plothole with this theory is its hopefulness—the only guy Kyle has “evidence” that Stan might like is himself, and he knows enough about confirmation bias to dismiss it. Stan being oblivious isn’t out of the question, and Kyle thinks it might even be relieving if this were true. In this scenario all he has to worry about is keeping himself out of danger, checking his emotions and interactions to avoid detection. He could forgive Stan, and himself, for the unfortunate misalignment of feelings. But this too feels like wishful thinking. Someone else might believe in Stan’s stupidity; Kyle knows his best friend and knows that he’s more thoughtful than anyone gives him credit for. Having a bleeding heart got Stan into shit as a kid, but all it did was make him better at hiding his empathy. Kyle doesn’t think he’d be cruel—he doubts Stan knows the depth of his feelings—but he could see Stan getting baked and taking a joke too far. A little bit of Randy lives inside Stan just like a little bit of Sheila lives inside Kyle. They take turns letting the worst of them come out, and maybe Stan wasn’t as ok with Kyle getting upset about his home life as he let on. It’d be much more like Stan to let resentment fester into something mocking and obnoxious. Kyle’s never taken Stan to be so capricious, but how well does he actually know him now, anyway? He didn’t know that Stan has been suffering for years, didn’t know that his sister is all but estranged, didn’t know that his pastimes have become serious habits. There’s no telling how much Kyle has missed. 

But then again, panicking is useless. On paper, nothing has changed. When Stan wakes up his treatment of the evening will suffice to calm Kyle’s fears—or stoke them—but either way promises answers. There’s a charred spot in the carpet to match the one on his arm from the dropped joint. He picks it up off the floor and rubs at the spot with his sock, which really just spreads the ash around. There are seven hours until people show up and demand that he acts like a person. It’s warmer downstairs and the heat pumping through the vents makes Kyle’s neck itch. He throws on his mother’s overcoat and steps onto the porch.

His mom picks up on the second ring, frantic with equal parts delight and reproach. They’ve been having a great time in Toronto, visiting Niagara Falls and the CN Tower and an aquarium later in the day. Kyle remembers holding Ike’s hand at the Denver aquarium just after he learned to walk, dragging Kyle from tank to tank, shouting and pointing at the biggest and brightest fish. 

“Do you want to talk to him?” Sheila asks, moving her mouth from the speaker to yell at Ike that Kyle’s on the phone, put down that video game and speak to your brother.

“No, Mom, it’s ok, just leave him be,” Kyle says, afraid the tension building in his throat will crack into emotion. He wishes he’d gone to Toronto. “You can tell him I said hey.”

“We miss you very much, sweetheart,” she says and Kyle knows she’s crying. That thing where she catches the teardrops on her acrylics the moment they fall, no makeup smears. 

“I miss you guys too.” His whole body is shivering and he chews on his inner cheeks, ignoring the pinch in his voice. He looks out at their snowmen from yesterday, grinning lopsided and standing at attention. Kyle gets the sudden urge to stomp over and topple Stan’s, kick it into slush. Maybe he is angry with him. It’s an easier emotion to process than grief, the acceptance that Kyle’s always been looking at this wrong. It’s not a question of _Does He_ or _Doesn’t He_ , but rather _Will This Hurt Bad_ or _Worse_? Kyle has a short, stilted conversation with his father who clearly doesn’t want to be on the phone any more than he does. Kyle agrees to call again tomorrow, maybe even hop on video chat if they have time. He knows this will not come to pass—he plans on claiming food poisoning so that he can spend the morning repairing whatever havoc was wreaked during the party. 

It’s around 1 when Kyle goes back inside, greeted by Stan frying an egg on the stove. 

“Oh, hey dude,” he says, dressed and fresh faced. “That your parents?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says, leaning against the counter farthest from Stan. His eyes scan for signs of something, anything, and get nothing. 

Stan turns off the burner and grabs a plate. “Everything ok?” 

“Uh, yeah, just catching up. She wants me to get on video tomorrow but I’ll make something up.”

Stan snorts. “You better. I doubt we’ll be up before three. Dude, speaking of, holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever slept that long in my whole life.”

“Ha. Fucking tell me about it.” Kyle watches Stan dress his egg, shoving a slice of bread in the toaster. Kyle swallows with difficulty; he hadn’t been expecting neutrality. “I’m never getting that high again.”

“Aw, don’t be lame.”

“I’m serious. I’m giving up everything.”

“Everything?” Stan turns to him with bored disbelief.

“Yes, dude, everything. It’s not worth it.” He rubs over the bandage, grateful for the ache. “I just act like a dumb ass.” Kyle doesn’t really think this about himself, but lobbing the accusation at Stan seems too aggressive.

“As if, dude. Wasn’t I the one who fucking branded you?”

“Like you don’t remember.” 

Stan shoves most of the slice of toast into his mouth at once. “Dude, I was super baked. I barely remember last night. Other than the burning thing.”

Ah. So there’s Kyle’s answer. He’s angrier than he thought he’d be. “That’s not how it works. You’re thinking of alcohol. You can’t black out on weed.” 

“Dude, why do you think my recall is so fucked? That shit zaps your memory. It’s a long term thing.” 

“I smoke every week and my memory is fine.” Kyle’s showing his hand but it’s too hard to stop.

“How would you know? You can’t remember what you’ve forgotten.” 

“That doesn’t make sense.” 

Stan puts his plate in the sink and crosses over to Kyle. “That’s the weed scrambling your brain.” He claps Kyle on the shoulder, heading into the living room still chewing. It’s difficult to reconcile that as the same hand that circled Kyle’s wrist last night, how gently he bandaged him up, the remorse and concern. Stan fires up the Xbox and kicks back on the couch while Kyle stands in the doorway. He’s already so far away, and isn’t that answer enough? 

It’s fine. Kyle can hover somewhere between disappointment and devastation and still act normal. It’ll be harder tonight, sober, but getting trashed would be a surefire way to destroy his restraint. Not every day of his life has to be good. Some things just need to be gotten through. Kyle joins him on the couch and picks up the controller, content to numb his mind for a little while and play against Stan. At least like this there’s no question about where they stand.

* * *

At four, Stan gets a text from Kevin saying he can come pick up the alcohol now. Kevin can’t make it after all, so someone has to drive to his place in North Park and bring it back. Kyle lets Stan take the car by himself—it’s only a forty minute drive—because the thought of making small talk with Stan and Kevin sounds worse than torture. He doesn’t have strong opinions on Kevin, not any stronger than Kevin’s opinions on Kyle, but he prefers to keep a healthy distance between himself and drug dealers. It only serves to make him more paranoid when he remembers that Kevin is undoubtedly the source of all the weed Kyle consumes. Better to not reinforce the connection between the two of them. 

He makes Stan promise to drive at exactly the speed limit—no slower or faster—and to put all the alcohol in the trunk. Apparently Kevin didn’t specify what he’d be purchasing, just that it’d be “enough.” Kyle doesn’t know whether to expect a cooler full of beer or kegs. 

“Don’t worry dude, I’ll be back before you know it,” Stan says at the door. “Straight there and straight back.”

“Ok, well, just keep me posted about where you are. It’s like thirty bucks cheaper if we pick up the pizzas ourselves and I want to use the car.”

Stan salutes him. “Roger that. See ya.”

Aside from his concerns about Stan getting a felony charge if caught, Kyle actually feels relieved. With Stan gone there’s nothing to overanalyze, no particular way he has to be for anyone else’s benefit. It occurs to him that he’s not alone very often, nearly always in the company of someone else in the house or a classroom, someone to behave for. He wonders what relaxing means to him under these circumstances. He works on his AP Psych essay for half an hour but gets stuck on the outline, failing to come up with anything to support his argument. His 4.0 is already ruined he figures, so it doesn’t really matter anymore if he procrastinates and half-asses it. Cleaning out the fridge and wiping down counters, vacuuming the living room and hiding valuables is much easier to accomplish. He puts in his headphones while he works, picking a playlist that he knows will only make him feel worse but who cares—the night will objectively suck regardless of his attitude. 

It’s 5:15 and Kyle still hasn’t heard from Stan. It’s forty minutes each way from North Park, so he should’ve arrived around 4:45, probably chatted with Kevin for five minutes or so, then at 4:50 he should’ve left to be back at Kyle’s by 5:30. Except he hasn’t texted Kyle that he left like he said he would. Kyle put in the pizza order half an hour ago and it’ll be ready soon. He frantically calculates drive vs. walk times to and from the pizza place, checking the distance on his phone and what time Stan would arrive if he left Kevin’s right now. No matter how he adds it up, Stan is late and Kyle will have to scramble.

He gets fed up enough to text, _have you left yet?_

Ten minutes pass and Kyle is ready to call a cab to North Park when Stan replies, _sry not yet ill leave soon_

Kyle replies, _i need the car to get the pizzas, rmr?_

Stan, _ill pay for delivery dont worry abt it_

This is not an acceptable solution. Throwing money at something because you shirked your responsibility is not problem solving. Kyle cobbles together an outfit that doesn’t look completely deranged and walks out of his house, slamming his door behind him. He doesn’t remember it making that weird scraping noise as it closes before, but that might be Randy’s doing. Kyle adds it to the list of things he’ll need to repair before his family comes back. He dreads to think of how much more will be on it after tonight. He hasn’t been to a ton of parties, but enough to know that Park High’s senior class is not the least bit delicate or respectful or sane when inebriated. 

It’s a twenty minute walk on slippery pavement; Kyle tries to remember the more dangerous patches for his return journey when he’ll be holding six boxes of large pizzas. The guy at the register tells Kyle the pizzas aren’t ready yet and he takes a seat on a freezing metal chair in the corner. The overwhelming grease smell both entices and nauseates. He’s hardly eaten all day but his ratcheting anxiety won’t allow him to do much about it other than salivate. He checks his phone—no text from Stan, 5:50 PM. _Fucking asshole_ , Kyle thinks, then is immediately visited by a vision of Stan dead in the driver’s seat, airbag pressed up against his vacant bloodied face. God fucking damn it. It’s not atypical for Kyle to imagine something horrible happening after thinking something bad about someone. His mother has been the victim of countless crimes in his head after he grumbled some complaint or another. It’s his karmic retribution he thinks, and a reminder to give people the benefit of the doubt. This guilt is probably the only thing standing between him and becoming someone like Eric Cartman.

The pizzas finish and Kyle stacks them into his arms—ten times heavier than he anticipated—and ignores the look of the employee clearly doubting his ability to carry these out. 

And they’re right to doubt him. His arms are shaking after the first block and the heat radiating off the boxes is steaming his torso, making him sweat. He can barely see the sidewalk and misremembers the location of various ice patches, nearly toppling him and the box tower. Nevermind. Fuck this. Fuck the party, fuck pizza, and fuck Stan. He should be in Toronto right now, getting ignored by Ike in an aquarium and eating overpriced poutine with his parents who won’t shut up about what a memorable trip it is. He almost falls again and thinks that if he broke his hip then he might be able to cancel the party.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he balances the boxes on his knee to pull it out. Stan. Kyle punches answer and holds the phone between his ear and shoulder. He better have a good fucking explanation.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” Stan sounds like it’s his fucking birthday. “I’m back, where are you?”

“Where are _you_?”

“Sorry, I had to hang around for a bit. He ended up knocking off like fifty bucks from what I owed him, too, so that was cool.”

“Cool.” The sarcasm is lost on Stan.

“Seriously though, it’s fucking freezing, can you let me in?”

“I’m not there.”

Kyle waits for the apology and instead gets silence.

After a moment, “...Ok?” Stan says. “Why?”

Is he playing stupid? “Because,” Kyle bites. “I’m walking back with the pizzas.”

“Dude,” Stan sighs. “I told you I’d pay for delivery.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not. “I’ll be back soon. The spare key is in the back under the pot by the door.”

“Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”

“I’m fine, I’ll be there soon.” Kyle hangs up before his voice cracks. He’s the kind of angry that lives only a hair away from hurt, and he can’t go there right now. Not with thirty pounds of pizza in his arms and an oblivious best friend waiting for him at home, unaware or uncaring that the last 24 hours have been unbridled anguish for Kyle and will continue to be until sunrise tomorrow. 

After a block he regrets denying Stan's offer. He leans against someone’s fence for a few minutes to catch his breath and will his arms to stop quivering. He is very, very angry. But the membrane between anger and despair is thinning, allowing the two to mingle freely inside his chest. It’s at this moment when the two are indistinguishable that Stan arrives in the car, slowing down at the curb and rolling down the window.

“Dude, get in,” he says, nodding at the back. 

“I said I’d be home soon.”

“Yeah, well, not sooner than a car.” 

Kyle looks away. “Do you think I’m too weak or something?”

“What? Dude, no. Just get in the car, the pizzas are probably cold by now.”

Stan gets out and grabs the boxes from Kyle’s arms, lies them carefully on the back seat. He motions for Kyle to sit in the front seat but instead he gets in the back, placing the pizzas on his lap. Stan’s right, they’re already significantly colder than before. “Grease stains” is Kyle’s explanation, preferring to not add car upholstery to his list of damages. Stan shrugs and drives back, telling Kyle about his time in North Park.

“Dude, his TV is insane, it’s like 80 inches or something.”

“That’s why you’re late? Because you were watching TV?”

“No—look, it’s part of the thing, ok? You can’t just ask someone to buy you shit, you have to be cool and hang for a little.”

“I thought you guys were friends.”

“Kenny’s my friend. Kevin’s more like an acquaintance. Just trust me, ok? There’s an art to it.”

“Got it.”

Luckily the drive is short and two minutes spent in silence doesn’t exactly qualify as unbearable. Stan grabs the pizza from Kyle’s lap when they arrive and they head inside. Stan runs back out to grab the alcohol from the trunk while Kyle fires up the oven. He sets it at the lowest heat and stacks half of the pizzas onto baking sheets to keep warm. Kyle hears a loud thunk over the threshold and turns around to Stan pushing a hand cart, a mini keg and two cases of beer stacked on it, plus a plastic grocery bag in his other hand.

“Is that it?” Kyle asks.

“Yep. Keg, singles, and—” He lifts the plastic bag up and something clinks inside. “Three handles of vodka.” 

“No, I mean, that’s all you got?”

Stan looks down at the cart. “Yeah? It’ll be fine, dude.”

“I thought you said like thirty people are coming.”

“Yes, and this will cover it. Besides, people will probably bring their own stuff too.”

Kyle is boiling. His arms ache. “You said you were going to take care of this.”

“I did take care of it! What are you freaking out about? I thought you didn’t want people destroying your house.”

“Yeah, but I also don’t want them to get here expecting a great party and then get pissed when it fucking sucks.”

Stan lowers the hand cart and sets the bag down on the counter. “Dude. Can you tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing.” Kyle avoids Stan’s pressing look, the blank face that says he’s done dealing with Kyle’s bitching. 

“Kyle.”

He recognizes this as Stan giving him an opportunity to back down. Normally this wouldn’t be an option, but Kyle’s about to face the judgment of thirty of his classmates and he’d rather be on Stan’s good side than not.

“I’m just, fucking—” Kyle groans. “I don’t know. I’m nervous, I guess.”

Stan leans his elbow against the counter, brow furrowed. “About what?”

“Everything. Everyone. People don’t like me.”

“Dude, shut the fuck up, are you serious right now?”

“They don’t! I’m not a fucking moron, I know I’m not a popular guy. I’m not saying I’m a pariah, I’m just not the guy that people would think ‘wow I bet he’d throw a cool party.’”

“Who gives a fuck about them? We’re doing this so _we_ can have fun. If we’re not having fun then the party’s over.”

Kyle doesn’t say that the hitch in this plan is that their respective ideas of fun diverge further every day. Kyle generally likes getting wasted with his friends, and doesn’t completely object to parties, but hosting and accommodating people who have done little else but make him feel different and small for the past four years doesn’t sound like a good time. He suspects that isolating himself with Stan the last few days has lulled him into a false sense of security, and the others will be able to smell it on him now that he’s let it get so close to the surface. Stan already did, clearly, and look where that got them.

“I’m not worried about _you_ having a bad time.”

Stan rolls his neck with a sigh. “Kyle, listen to me.” He presses a light hand to Kyle’s shoulder, barely enough pressure to feel it. “This is your house. I am your guest. Shh—no, dude, I am. Nothing is going to happen tonight that you don’t want to happen. Alright? The second you start having a bad time, for any reason, we kick everybody out. Ok?”

Kyle chews his cheek. Stan’s face is so sincere it’s sickening. “You promise? You won’t get pissed?”

“I promise. This is going to be fun. Parties are fun, remember?” 

“So is Call of Duty,” Kyle says under his breath.

“What was that?” Stan dramatically leans his ear in, pretending to not have heard. 

“Just my brilliant wit, asshole. Come on, help me set up the drink table.”

* * *

The first hour is, admittedly, completely fine. Only six people show up and they’re as mild-mannered as people who show up on-time to parties tend to be. The difficulties begin somewhere between 8 and 8:30, when it becomes apparent that most people decided Kyle’s party was an event worth pre-gaming. A large group of mostly girls enters together, stringing themselves in a misshapen line of conversation between the living room and the drinks in the kitchen. Stan was right, people brought their own and seven other bottles join the vodka and beer, small puddles already forming from spills around the solo cup tower. They also obeyed the Christmas decoration rule, and now there’s tinsel and free-floating ornaments strewn on all surfaces not occupied by a cup or person. Craig is walking around with a full Santa hat and beard on and almost gets into a fight with Nichole when he sees that she did the same thing. 

Kyle assumes his natural post at Stan’s side, sipping sparkling cider out of a red cup and nodding along to the drunken ramblings of someone he doesn’t know that well. Stan nudges him to join in, prompting anecdotes for Kyle to tell, but by his third vodka drink he lets Kyle be, and only nods in acknowledgement when Kyle excuses himself to clean up a spill in the dining room. Cartman arrives with Butters and Jimmy, suspiciously reserved in their entrance, and Kenny explodes through the door, declaring that he has fireworks and isn’t afraid to use them. 

By 9:30 most everyone has shown up and if Kyle didn’t know better he’d say things were actually going well. Someone is blasting a horrible Pokemon Christmas song over the Christmas music that’s already playing, adding to the cacophony of laughter and chatter. Kyle works like one of those robot vacuums following around people as they drop and spill things, cleaning as he goes to avoid a nightmare tomorrow morning. He leans in a corner to check his phone, a few texts from his mother with pictures of their day and to wish him a good night. A rare photo of Ike smiling by a low pool with his hand on a stingray. 

“Cowering?” 

Kyle looks up to find Cartman hovering beside him, facing the crowd so that someone glancing at them might not know they were even speaking. He sips on a beer, a little piece of tinsel clinging to the side of his cup. 

“What?” Kyle asks. Cartmas has changed, visibly, the most of Kyle’s childhood friends, although not as much as Cartman himself would have liked. 

“You just seem a little out of place. It’s your party, I thought you’d be having fun.”

Kyle and Cartman haven’t spoken outside of a classroom context in over three years. Kyle doesn’t have enough patience to wonder what his motive is. “What the fuck do you care, asshole?”

“I don’t. It’s just kinda weird. You, of all people, having a party.”

“Yep.” Kyle nods, pushing himself off the wall. “Don’t let me keep you from the fun.” He finds Stan’s head in the crowd and nudges his way to him, joining the circle of Stan, Kenny and Bebe. Thanks to some tall people blocking them from view, he hadn’t noticed the other two until it was too late.

“Kyle!” Kenny launches himself at Kyle, squeezing his arms around his neck in a way that’s almost painful. “You made it!”

“Yeah, it’s my house, remember?”

Kenny snaps and points at him. “That’s right! Our little man is growing up.” He ruffles Kyle’s hair, who ducks away as best he can. There’s a sheen of sweat all over his skin and his eyes are wide and bright. He puts a hand over his heart. “Baby’s first rager!” 

Kyle’s not entirely sure what drug Kenny is on, just that it’s one Kyle has never tried. 

“Hey Kyle,” Bebe says, giving him a weak wave. Her eyes squint when she smiles and her velvet red top matches the exact shade of her lipstick. Kyle greets her as Stan’s arm slaps around his shoulders. 

“See?” Stan says, leaning into the circle like he’s spitting his words into the center for everyone to share. “Kyle’s great. Kyle saved me.” A strong wave of vodka washes over Kyle when Stan opens his mouth. His hair is sticking to his temples and his gaze is unfocused.

“Wait, what?” Kyle asks. He gives Stan a tentative smile, looking at the others for help.

“You did. He saved me. I am, one hundred percent fresh and certified, _h-o-m-e-l-e-s-s_!”

Kenny imitates an air horn while Bebe muffles her laughter with her hand. Craig walking by stops, asks Stan if he’s serious, and Stan starts from the beginning.

“That’s right. You’re looking at one of America’s finest runaways!”

“What happened?” Craig asks.

“Dude,” Stan takes a sip, wipes his mouth on his shoulder. “My dad’s a fucking asshole, ok? Everyone knows that. Fucking—the fucking president knows that. Aliens know that. Everyone knows my dad is a dickbag. Right?” He jostles Kyle and all eyes fall to him. “Anyway, he’s been an abusive piece of shit for years so I just fucking had it. I’m fucking done, you know? Kyle was there—Kyle, tell them what my dad was doing. Tell them all the shit he was saying.”

Stan is laughing but Kyle feels sick. His speech has drawn the attention of a few more people and they look to Kyle with varying expressions of curiosity, concern, and delight. Is Stan actually expecting him to answer? A day ago Stan swore he’d never spoken to another soul about this out of overwhelming shame, and now he wants Kyle to air out his dirty laundry in front of everyone. Kyle tries to grab Stan’s cup from his hand, some latent instinct kicking in. The night’s not even half over. How bad is this going to get?

Clyde and Token bust through the front door before Kyle can answer, carrying in a roughly five foot pine tree. 

The shocked laughter roars up all at once, Clyde chortling “ _MERRRRRRY CHRISTMAS_!” to the crowd as they clear the doorway.

“Where’s Broflovski?” Token asks, and someone points Kyle’s way as they head over. “Merry fucking Christmas, dude. Where do you want this?”

Kyle is red and getting redder. “I don’t want it. Get this thing out of here.”

Stan is hugging Clyde and singing a tree-related carol. “Aw come on,” he says over Stan’s shoulder. “We cut it ourselves. It’s like _Charlie Brown Christmas_.”

“Remember, Kyle?” Stan asks, grabbing onto his shoulders. “We watched that the other day! You love Christmas trees!”

“I’m pretty sure the Charlie Brown one didn’t have real sap that will ruin my mom’s carpet.”

“Ho-ly shit,” Cartman’s voice comes from behind Kyle, walking up to the tree. “No fucking way.”

“Kyle wants us to get rid of it,” Clyde says, miming jerking himself off as he rolls his eyes.

Cartman snorts. “Psh. Don’t listen to Kyle’s sandy vagina, that tree is fucking awesome.”

“Look, I’ll put my jacket under the trunk, ok?” Token is about as drunk as Stan is, glassy-eyed and swaying a little. 

Kyle digs his knuckles over his brow. “Jesus, fucking—Fine. Fine, just put it in the corner or something. God fucking damn it.”

“Thank you, dude, for real.” Token shakes Kyle’s hand like he’s trying to rip his arm off. About the tree, “This is my baby.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda sick that you did this, dude,” Clyde says. “We had a bet going that you’d call it off.”

“I said you’d do it,” Token says.

Clyde, “I didn’t think you’d have the balls.”

“Personally? I don’t buy it.” Cartman steps into their circle, finishing off his cup and crushing it in his hand. “Stan has something on him, Kyle wouldn’t be this cool on his own.”

“Fuck you, fat ass.” Kyle’s instincts are still sharpened around Cartman.

“You’re calling _this_ fat?” Cartman raises his arms and flexes, though Kyle can’t see much of a difference between the two.

“Dude, fuck off,” Stan says, picking up the crushed cup from the floor. “Why don’t you use your fucking Hercules muscles to put the tree up?”

Clyde and Token agree, roping him into carrying it off into the corner. Kyle doesn’t realize that his entire body is tensed until Stan puts an arm around him again and his dead weight highlights the disparity. 

“Why is everyone so shocked that I had this party?”

“For real?” Kenny asks, eyes darting between Stan, Kyle and Bebe.

“Dude,” Stan’s arm slips off of Kyle. “Your mom almost started world war three. I wouldn’t have the balls to cross her if I was you.”

Bebe hiccups with laughter and tilts her head back. Kenny is similarly cracking up while staring directly at Bebe’s boobs. He turns to Stan for commiseration only to find him staring too, mouth slightly parted. There’s no way Bebe doesn’t see this though she doesn’t show it, preening even more for them if anything. Not for Kyle, though. How obvious is it? How many people in this room are aware of how pathetic Kyle is, staring at someone who will never stare back?

“Well,” Kyle pulls a fake wide smile. “I do it all for you guys. Glad you’re having a good time.”

“Dude,” Kenny says. “It’s a compliment. You’ve got a massive sack, you should be proud of it.”

“Kenny!” Bebe slaps Kenny’s arm. “That’s so gross.” 

“I’ve got a small one, if that’s more your thing,” Kenny leers. “Nice and tight.” He grabs his crotch for emphasis.

“Ew! God,” Bebe pushes Kenny but is clearly biting down a smile. “Stan, will you save me from this pervert please?” She puts her hand over his and leaves it there, blinking up at him like it takes effort.

Kyle wants to disappear. He wants to be on whatever Kenny’s on and not care. He wants to be in Toronto.

“Kyle,” Kenny starts. “Back me up—sack isn’t gross.”

“Yes it is,” Kyle says into his cider, searching for escape routes.

“What, are you more into schlong?” Stan asks Kyle, looking straight at Bebe. He watches her gasp in laughter and smiles at Kenny who’s doubled over. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says, grabbing Kyle by the back of the neck and shaking him. 

“Fuck you, dude,” Kyle says, brushing Stan’s arm off. They all think he’s still joking.

“I’m sorry! I said I was sorry.” Stan is still laughing, attempting to grab at Kyle’s arms that he wrenches out of reach. 

“Stan,” Kenny whines, his voice pitched oddly. “Look what you did, you upset the baby!”

“Oh no!” Stan whines back, Bebe giggling high and airy. “Kenny, give him binkie.”

Kenny sticks his thumb out toward Kyle’s mouth, chasing him as he ducks. “C’mon, take the binkie!”

At this point Kyle turns around fully and walks with purpose toward the stairs, only to be corralled back by Kenny and Stan, apologizing over laughter that communicates they’re not actually sorry. How are these people his friends? There have been plenty of times over the years that Stan has let Kyle down, almost all of them in relation to impressing the right people. It occurs to him that he shouldn’t be surprised—what was the point of this whole party if not to boost Stan’s social status? Isn’t that cool, he can get Kyle—the biggest downer in all of Park High—to throw a party without his parents’ permission and all he has to do is sleep over at his house once a week and pretend to be best friends. Kyle’s place as a vestigial figure in Stan’s life has never been more apparent. Who else is in on the joke and were they really all so cruel as to never tell him? 

The Christmas music is driving him crazy, so Kyle agrees to peek out back to show Kenny and Bebe Stan’s snowman. Kyle wishes he had crushed it when he had the chance. Kenny asks, “What the fuck’s wrong with this one?” Pointing at Kyle’s, to which Stan replies, “It’s Kyle’s artistic interpretation of your sack, isn’t he talented?” 

When they’re back inside Wendy has arrived. Kyle lets them flock to her while he hangs back, watching how smoothly she diverts their attention. If they were any less similar Kyle wouldn’t hate her so much. She catches his eye and waves. He doesn’t really hate her. But he could. Easily. Kyle gives her a pinched smile and backs away, regretting his sobriety pledge. 

He bumps into Bradley and Token on his retreat and they rope him into their conversation, insisting that he help them tell some story from when they used to play superheroes as kids. Stan and Bebe are close by, wrapped in their own conversation while Kenny and Wendy have disappeared. Kyle watches them as Token talks, noticing all the little excuses she finds to touch him, the way he holds her eye contact and animates himself for her. Stan isn’t usually so lively or loud, though it could be the alcohol. How much has he had? Bebe leans up to whisper in Stan’s ear, who smiles while she talks and whispers back when she’s finished, a hand around her wrist. 

It’s hard to say definitively, but this might be the worst night of Kyle’s life. He didn’t think anything else could be worse than cowering in a closet, hiding from Stan’s father out of fear for his life. But at least with that there was hope that he might live. This morning there was hope that maybe Stan is clueless and has no idea what he’s doing to Kyle. Now there’s only the bitter obvious left, slicing Kyle’s throat as it slides down. This is what it’s all been about. One last hurrah before graduation; maybe he’s angling for prom king with Bebe at his side. They’ll take nice pictures together, Stan’s hands sitting on her tiny waist with a rosebud stuck to his lapel. There are so many things that Stan hasn’t told Kyle, things that Kyle was fine to ignore since it fit his fantasy that he’d want to come live with him. That he could be Stan’s savior, exactly what he needed when he needed it. What’s more likely is that Stan had been planning this party the whole time—sans Kyle, because who would want him there? Then Stan has to leave home and where’s he going to throw the party now? How about at Kyle’s, he’s a sucker, he’ll do anything Stan says. All he has to do is sweeten the pot with the false promise of mutual affection and Kyle will let him commit misdemeanors in his mom’s car, wreck his house and belittle him in front of his friends. Now Bebe’s grabbing Stan’s hands to dance with him, swaying him side to side while he feigns resistance. Everything is going according to plan. 

And even if none of that is true, he’s still over there with her and not with him. Kyle is supposed to be having fun. He slips away from Token and the others unnoticed, heading upstairs to be alone.

He’s stopped on the stairs by Butters who wishes him a merry Christmas and a happy Hanukkah too, asking where Kyle’s parents are and how he’s enjoying his time off school. Kyle answers back politely—even at his lowest he finds it difficult to be mean to Butters—and winds up sitting down on the steps to listen to Butters talk about his Christmas list. Three guys on the steps below them are passing around an old Gameboy, taking turns on a Yoshi game. Eventually they ask if Kyle and Butters want a go and pass it up to them. He watches Butters play—not very well, he might add—swallowing past memories of sitting beside Stan just like this, watching him play and shouting out warnings and advice. Kyle skips his turn and passes it down to the guy below him, staring at the screen in an attempt to block everything else out. It hurts. This hurts. Worse than watching Stan kiss Wendy as kids, worse than every time Kyle’s dad hassled him about not having a girlfriend, worse than always being different, worse than Stan pulling away and pretending it never happened. He digs his thumbnail into the bandage over his burn and lets his eyes water with the pain. No one’s looking at him anyway, they never are. 

“Where is he?” Someone is shouting from the kitchen, Clyde’s head emerging from around the corner. He spots Kyle and points. “Dude! Dude, your oven’s on fire.”

Kyle vaults himself down the stairs and into the kitchen before his heart can stop. Smoke wafts out from the sides of the oven door, people scattered in a wide circle around it doing nothing. He opens the door and gets a face full of smoke. Luckily there’s no actual fire, just the charred remains of the pizzas he put in there hours earlier to warm. So fucking stupid. He turns off the oven and rummages through his drawers, looking for tongs. He pushes a girl he doesn’t know out of the way to get under the sink for a trash bag and extracts the former pizzas from the oven, dumping them in the bag. The kitchen has filled with smoke that’s filtering out into the other rooms, people coughing and vacating to the dining room. He slides the back door open and goes from room to room opening windows. It’s close to 30 degrees outside and several people complain about the cold, wind whipping inside in bursts. Kyle couldn’t give less of a flying fuck. Haze lingers in the air and Kyle keeps coughing into his elbow. He remembers then that these clothes aren’t his own and walks straight to the drink table. There’s still a full box of pizza completely untouched—that’s a hundred bucks down the drain. He pours himself what’s left of a bottle of vodka, about a third of a cup, and downs it in a long burning gulp. It’s too hard to do this sober. If no one else gives a fuck about doing the right thing why should he?

Kyle keeps waiting to feel the alcohol in his body but it doesn’t come. He gets pulled in to referee an arm wrestling competition between Cartman and Craig on the coffee table, though it doesn’t require him to do anything besides say “3, 2, 1, go” and “Craig wins” when Craig wins. When he looks up, he’s surprised to see Stan sitting alone on the arm of the recliner. Stan catches his gaze and nods at him, shouts, “Dude, what happened in the kitchen?”

Kyle walks over and collapses into the recliner, allowing his muscles to sink into the plush leather. He’s feeling the drink just a little, buzzing on the tips of his ears. 

“That bad?” Stan asks.

“I forgot about the pizzas I put in the oven earlier. They burned up and now everything smells like fucking smoke. Not that anyone ate the fucking pizzas, anyway. So fucking stupid.”

Stan hisses. “Ah, shit, that sucks. I’ll pay you for the pizzas though, don’t worry about it.”

“You paid for the alcohol—we’ll call it even.”

“Cheers to that. Oh, wait, you’re not drinking, right?”

Kyle takes Stan’s cup from his hand. “Who gives a shit.” He finishes what was left, beer presumably, but he tastes something else too that has a biting quality to it. 

“Woah, there he goes,” Stan chuckles. “So much for Mr. Sobriety.”

“Sobriety’s overrated.”

“And I thought I was the one with the problem.” Stan laughs and rolls his eyes when Kyle stays quiet. “Alright, bad joke, sorry.”

“Where’s Bebe?”

Stan shrugs. “I don’t know, I think I saw her walk off with Clyde?”

Kyle chews on the rim of the empty cup, glancing at Stan sidelong who stares into the crowd. “Are you ok with that?”

Stan quirks his brow. “Yeah? It’s a free country, they can do whatever they want.”

Kyle doesn’t know what to make of his tone, somewhere between indifferent and disappointed depending on how pessimistic he’s feeling. 

“Dude,” Stan elbows him. “That was so sad watching Cartman lose.”

Kyle snorts. “Really? I thought it was pretty great.”

“Well yeah, it’s just awkward to see a grown man cry like a fucking toddler.” Cartman hadn’t actually cried, but he looked close.

Kyle chuckles despite himself and they share a look, spying Cartman moping in the opposite corner by the scraggly tree. 

“I bet you could beat him,” Stan says, that familiar glint in his eye from when they’d conspire as kids. 

“No way dude, he’s got like fifty pounds on me.”

“That’s why it’ll be so funny when you win. No, seriously, I’d put money on you. It’s not like you haven’t kicked his ass before.”

“That was when we were kids.”

“Dude, you could kick my ass if you were mad enough. Anyone’s ass.”

Kyle’s blush is reflexive. Stan’s working him with all these little looks and that nervous smile, and it’s unfortunately effective. Doubt works its way back into Kyle’s mind and maybe he was overreacting, it’s not like Stan outed him or was gaybashing. It was just a joke. Their forearms make contact, just an inch near the elbow, but it’s enough to soften Kyle to something like apathy. What else is he supposed to do?

“There you are!” Kenny bursts from the kitchen, drinks in hand that slosh over the rim of the cup as he skids to a halt. “This is yours,” he hands a drink to Stan. “And I’ve got more of the—” He flashes his tongue. “If you want to have a _really_ good time. Oh, hey Kyle. Want a drink?”

Kyle gives him a pinched smile. “I’m good, thanks.” 

“Well,” he lifts his cup to Stan. “Three cheers to dropping out—bottom’s up!”

“Wait, what?” Kyle sits up while Kenny downs his drink, Stan taking a timid sip. “You’re dropping out?”

“Come on, don’t act like you’re surprised. School just weighs you down. Who needs it?”

“Um, I don’t know, anyone who wants to have a real career in life?”

“Psh. Hater. We have careers.” Kenny slings his arm around Stan’s neck. “And we’re fucking good at it too. Pays better than the fucking Ralph’s.”

Stan jerks away. “Shut the fuck up, dude,” he says through gritted teeth.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Stan? What’s he talking about?”

Kenny takes another sip, wagging a finger in Kyle’s face. “Dude, don’t be a bitch about this. At least Stan actually tried to pass. But what can you do? There’s no fucking point in finishing if you already know you can’t graduate.”

“ _What_?” 

Stan’s mouth is small and pinched. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he says to Kenny.

“What?” Kenny laughs. “Kyle’s not an idiot, he knows you can’t just pull all that cash out of your ass.”

“What. The fuck.” Kyle stares at Stan who won’t meet his gaze. Stan is completely stiff and he elbows Kenny when he tries to put a hand on his shoulder. “What the fuck, Stan. What the _fuck?_ ”

Kyle is aware of people starting to look over, eyes shifting between the three of them as conversations pause.

“Fuck, dude,” Kenny begins backing away. “You really didn’t tell him?”

“Fuck off,” Stan says, closing his eyes and sighing. 

“Stan?” Kyle watches him, his face shifting in tiny movements. He’s witness to the exact moment that Stan shuts down and shuts him out. 

“Whatever, dude,” Stan takes another sip. “Don’t act so fucking shocked.”

Whatever Kyle thought the worst could be, this is worse. This is waking up with a limb missing, his tongue cut out. He feels sick with anger, rage bubbling to the surface to protect him.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Stan throws his head back. “What do you want me to say?”

Kenny has disappeared and as their voices drop, people start to look away, back to their own stupid lives that aren’t falling apart.

“I’m not having fun anymore,” Kyle spits. “Get everybody out.”

“Dude,” Stan sighs. “Come on, people are only going to hang around for another hour probably.”

“I don’t care. _You_ said this party was for us to have fun. I’m not having fucking fun.” His voice cracks and Stan looks away, embarrassed for him. “Get everyone out.”

“No.” Stan crosses an arm over his stomach and leans back. 

“I’m not fucking around. Get these people out of my house.”

“You’re seriously acting like a fucking baby.”

Kyle stands on the recliner, seething and blinking back tears. “HEY!” He shouts over the music, only a few people looking over. “HEY. Turn the fucking music off,” he shouts to Token who’s nearest to the stereo. He does as instructed and Kyle cups his hand around his mouth. “EVERYBODY WHO DOESN’T LIVE HERE GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW.” 

“Hey!” Cartman turns and smiles, addressing the room. “The bitch is back! I told you guys!”

“I’M NOT FUCKING KIDDING. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE IN THE NEXT TEN FUCKING SECONDS BEFORE I CALL THE COPS.”

“Oh yeah, call the cops on yourself,” Cartman snorts. “Great idea, dumbass.”

Kyle pulls his phone from his pocket and starts dialing. Clyde bolts to the door and people start to follow, grumbling and whispering to one another, reproachful glances as they stare back at Kyle as they leave. 

He spots Stan milling toward the door and points at him. “Not you. You stay here and fucking wait for me.” Jimmy and Craig squeal a mocking _ooOOoo_ before Kyle snaps at them to shut the fuck up and get out. Stan disappears into the kitchen and Kyle heads upstairs, smacking the walls as he walks. 

“Party’s over, get the fuck out of my house,” he shouts to any lingerers. He flips the lights on Mark and some girl grinding on Ike’s bed, has enough room to be marginally relieved that no one’s passed out and unmovable. He sees them to the door and slams it behind them. There’s a stampede inside him trampling over the despair, grounding it into slush to make way for pure fury. He wants to find Stan and punch him and scream at him and ask him how the fuck he could do this.

Kyle searches every room of the house until he finds Stan outside, leaned against the wall with a cigarette in his hand. He blows smoke from his mouth as he watches Kyle approach.

“So you smoke now?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Jesus, dude, calm the fuck down.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me? Aside from you being a fucking drug dealer.”

Stan shakes his head and takes another drag. Kyle could hit him. 

“Well? Did you flunk out before or after Kenny hired you?”

Stan stubs the cigarette out on the wall. “He didn’t hire me, we work together. Kevin’s my boss, technically.”

“You said he was an acquaintance. You acted like you barely know him.”

“I do barely know him—fuck! Will you get off my case about this?” He’s talking to Kyle like he’s a stranger, like he’s Randy. 

Kyle’s too panicked to keep the contempt from his voice. “What else do I need to know? What else have you been lying about?”

“I didn’t fucking lie to you, I just didn’t tell you, it’s different.”

“Bull shit, Stan. I could’ve helped you. You only needed three fucking classes to graduate, so which was it?” 

Stan turns the half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, his breath fogging in the air. “English.”

Ms. Dacey’s honey sweet laugh as she stands over Stan’s desk. Kyle feels sick. It was her. He knew she’d find a way to hurt Stan one way or another. Why didn’t Kyle try to stop it?

“Fuck. _Fuck._ This because you stopped fucking her.”

Stan turns to him, spitting. “I never fucked her, how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Well she wanted you to, and you didn’t, so she’s obviously retaliating!”

“Or maybe she just did the right fucking thing and failed me, Kyle. Did you think of that?” His eyes are watering from the cold or anger or maybe something else. “I deserved the F. I didn’t even finish the final.”

Every word out of Stan’s mouth makes his stomach pitch. “ _Why?_ ”

Stan throws up his hands. “I don’t fucking know! I don’t have an excuse. Everyone did everything they could to help me and I still failed. I’m fucking stupid. Do you get it? That’s the reason.”

“No it isn’t,” Kyle hisses. “You knew you were going to fail and you didn’t give a shit.”

“I didn’t _know_ I was going to fail. I’d done extra credit work with Ms. Dacey and I thought I could get a D. I did the fucking math wrong, ok? I’m a dumbass. That’s it.”

It’s possible that what he’s saying is true. Not that he’s stupid, but that even if her intentions were impure, Stan didn’t make it easy for her to pass him. Kyle’s losing track of his own argument, the edges of his vision softening into muted smudges. How much did he drink, why did he drink, why the fuck did Stan do this?

“And then I get my fucking report card,” Stan huffs out a laugh but his lip is shaking. “And I can’t fucking graduate and my parents are losing their fucking minds again and I’m just, like, fucking trapped here.” His voice breaks, then catches again low and gruff. “Do you get that? You don’t get to be mad, because you’re not the one who has to stay here for the rest of your fucking life.”

Stan sobbing in his arms that night, hours after grades were released. His insistence that Randy’s behavior wasn’t so bad. He should’ve figured it out. He should’ve known. 

“So that’s it?” Kyle asks, caked in resentment. “You’re just going to drop out and sell drugs? That’s your great fucking solution? You and Kenny are so stoked to dig yourselves an early grave.”

He knows how drunk he sounds, how foolish and bitter. It doesn’t stop him. He should’ve said this days ago, months, years.

“Can you shut the fuck up about Kenny, ok?” Stan glowers. “This isn’t about him.”

“Yeah fucking right it’s not. He’s the one who got you into this shit. He’s the reason you’re off getting high all the time and no one knows where you are.”

“ _No one knows where I am?_ What the fuck are you even talking about? Do you know how jealous you sound?”

Kyle’s throat pinches; he fights hard against an instinct to crumple and frown. “I’m not _jealous_. He’s bad for you. I’m not fucking crazy.”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. _Kenny_ isn’t a fucking dick. That’s why I hang out with him.”

Stan doesn’t have to say the _instead of you._ Kyle hears it loud and clear. 

“You act like this is all my fucking fault,” Stan slams himself back against the wall. 

“No one else quit your job for you, Stan.”

“I was fired, dipshit.”

Kyle almost misses this, ready to lob another accusation at him. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, Kyle, another big fucking surprise for you.”

“But—why? You said you were working all the time.”

“Yeah, well.” He relights the cigarette and takes a drag, hand shaking as he brings it to his mouth. “When you miss a week of shifts because you’re too depressed to get out of bed they don’t really have much choice.”

Kyle has no response. His mouth is bobbing open like a fish, replaying the summer in his head. He seemed sad, sure, but that happens now and again. How did Kyle miss this?

“And besides,” Stan exhales a cloud of smoke. “Kenny said he could get me easy money, and it is easy money. I make ten times as much doing this than that slave wage shit.”

As much as Kyle wants to cry he’d rather scream. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why the fuck do you think, dude?” Stan pushes himself off the wall. “Hm? Look at yourself. You already think I’m a piece of shit.”

“I _don’t_ think you’re a piece of shit.” Kyle sighs through gritted teeth. “I just know you’re better than this.” 

“Oh here we go, Kyle’s on his high horse again. Unless I do it the way you think is right then it’s all fucking wrong.”

“It’s not insane to want you to give a shit about your future.” 

“Oh fuck off, dude, seriously.”

“No, Stan!” He steps in front of Stan who looks to the side, cheeks sucked in. “I’ve been holding my tongue for too fucking long and now look what happened. You can’t treat your life like it doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Like you give a shit,” Stan sneers.

Kyle balks. “Are you even listening to me? I swear to god it’s like I have to beg you to not want to die.” The tears are harder to keep at bay now, alcohol easing the barrier between desperation and despair.

“Do you hear yourself right now?” Stan looks him in the eye, cold and far away. “Do you know how fucking idiotic you sound?”

“Fuck you,” Kyle chokes out.

“No, fuck you, Kyle.” Stan’s voice is strained to breaking and it makes Kyle want to run. “It’s real fucking easy for you to sit there with your nice fucking house with your nice parents and your free college and your tutors and your giant fucking brain. I’m glad your life is so fucking great that you want to see 100 but not all of us are that fucking lucky.”

“It’s not about that—”

“Yes it is!” His eyes are wide and his hands reach out like he wants to shake him. “It’s always been about that! What don’t you fucking get? I can’t just _snap out of it_. That’s not how it fucking works. My brain is broken. I can’t get through a day without my dad or a fucking voice in my head telling me to put a bullet in my brain unless I’m drunk off my ass. Do you even know what that’s fucking like?”

“Just—” A flash of images of Stan sunk under the water of his bathtub, sat inside his laundry basket in his closet with his head leaned to the side, blood spatter on the wall behind him. “Just tell me what’s going on and I can help.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I can’t just spill my guts to you and everything will be fine. It doesn’t. Go. Away. Not unless I’m fucked up, but according to you I can’t have that either.”

Kyle can only look at the ground. “I don’t want you to have to get fucked up to be happy.”

“Well I’m sorry I can’t do that for you. I’m sorry I can’t just ‘be better’ for you. Believe me, I’ve tried my very fucking hardest for you but it’s never enough.” His voice is wet inside the anger and he can’t look at Kyle. He’s saying something else too, Kyle can hear it under everything, but he’s too drunk to know what it is. 

“Stan, I don’t want anything from you—I just—”

“Whatever, dude, I get it. You don’t have to do this.”

Kyle glares, back at fucking square one. “Do _what?”_

“Just fucking forget it. I’m done with this.” Stan steps on the cigarette and starts to walk back to the door. 

Kyle’s heart seizes. “Will you stop being a drama queen for one fucking second?

“I’m not the one who’s screaming.”

Kyle hadn’t realized he’d been shouting. It’s too much to think about how much his neighbors have heard, too much to take in everything that’s been said to him. It takes effort to balance himself on his feet and he lurches forward, catching himself before he trips. It can’t end like this. Lying is lying—Stan doesn’t get a free pass just because his life is hard. He thinks of all the ways he’s lied to Stan, a necessity for preserving their friendship. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. 

“No, fuck you, Stan.” He’s closer to Stan now, who backs away from him like he’s diseased. “You’ve been an asshole to me all night. What the fuck did I do to you? Seriously?” 

Stan shakes his head, sour smirk on his face. “If you don’t get it now you’re never going to get it.” 

“Get _what?_ Because from my side, you’ve been lying to me for months, acting like I’m some untrustworthy asshole, but as soon as you need someone to bend over backwards for you I’m the first one you call. Does that sound right?”

Kyle knows this hit its target as the corner of Stan’s mouth twitches downward. “Fuck you,” Stan says. He tries to turn around but Kyle gets in front of him. 

“I did this _for you._ I put up with these people and their bullshit _for you._ And this is what I get?”

Stan narrows his eyes. “You’re not a _victim_ , Kyle, ok? Stop fucking acting like one.”

“Then why don’t _you_ stop acting like you’ve never done anything wrong? Huh?” It’s bubbling up faster than Kyle can stop, a train barreling towards them both, they’ll be blasted to pieces but where else is there to go from here? The only thing left is the end. His voice shakes. “You can’t fuck with me all week and then act like we’re not even friends as soon as anyone else is around.” 

Stan doesn’t respond right away, blinking against the bright porch light. “I—I didn’t fuck with you, what are you talking about?”

Hollow laughter against the rising nausea as everything spins. “Are you _serious?_ You’re really going to play stupid?”

Stan is still blinking in that odd way, his jaw set hard. “I don’t know. What the fuck. You’re talking about.”

“What was that? Last night.” Kyle crosses his arms over his chest. He should be cold and he knows he’s shaking but he can’t feel anything other than the rage. Stan’s face is still. “Or are you still pretending you don’t remember?”

“I’m not—I didn’t do anything—”

Kyle laughs, looks up at the stars peppering the sky. It’s all so fucking endless. “Fuck you, Stan.” He sniffs, it’s too hard to hold back now, warm tears sneaking down the bridge of his nose. “I know—” A blade slicing through his throat as he tries to speak. “That you know about me. Ok? You don’t have to act clueless. All I ask is that you don’t get my hopes up that you might even like me as a person, ok? As a fucking friend.” 

Stan sputters. His lack of response is an answer in itself. No matter how stupid Stan acts there’s no bigger idiot than Kyle who let it happen. 

Kyle squeezes his eyes tight to make all the tears fall at once. When they’re gone, he breathes and looks up. “I’m sick of you pitying me, and lying, and doing shit to me to get what you want. So just fucking go.”

Someone’s dog barks in their backyard, bugs chirping. He loses courage and looks at his shoes, concentrating on the stretched and frayed laces. _I’ll never breathe again_ , he thinks, his lungs stuttering in time with his heart. 

“That’s it?” Stan’s face is blank and cold, voice flat and mouth drawn tight. His brow pinches right in the center, the only sign that any of this means anything to him at all.

“That’s it, Stan,” Kyle exhales. 

“Yeah, you know what, you’re right.” Stan nods, backing away toward the door. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I’ll see you around.”

Kyle doesn’t follow, at first, wishing the tears would come back. His atoms are rearranging to a new life, one without Stan, and even now he knows he’ll come out the other side someone completely different. He tries to think who Stan will be—maybe exactly who he already is, just lighter, untethered, free. Kyle’s stomach pitches and he opens the sliding door, bracing himself against the kitchen counter. He can hear Stan upstairs, slamming the bathroom door, then after a minute slamming Kyle’s door against the wall. Like father, like son. The penny drops and Kyle jogs upstairs as best he can without falling.

Stan kneels by his backpack, shoving his things inside. Kyle stands in the doorway, the hinges of his jaw filling with acrid saliva.

“Where are you going?” he asks, timid like he’s afraid. Is he?

“What the fuck do you care?” Stan doesn’t bother turning around.

“I’m sorry. You don’t actually have to leave.” The wood of the door jamb feels fake underneath his hand, the color of the room off somehow, everything, everything is wrong.

Stan hitches on his backpack, turning to brush past Kyle. “I’ll pass.”

“Don’t go home,” Kyle follows him down the stairs, Stan taking them two at a time. He doesn’t respond. “Or—go to Kenny’s or something. Please don’t go home.”

“With all due respect,” Stan turns around at the front door. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Stan, please.” He can’t say he’s sorry because it would be a lie. He can’t beg him to stay because it wouldn’t work. That vision of Stan in his closet, his head hanging limp from his neck. “Please don’t go home.” He takes a step toward Stan who turns his head away toward the open door. “Anywhere, just—just not there. Please?”

Stan’s leg is shaking, his mouth twisted into something like misery or disgust. “For the record,” he braves a look at Kyle. “I never fucked with you. And I never, ever pitied you.” 

From the moment the door shuts Kyle loses control of himself, crumpling on the floor with his ankle twisted painfully under his weight. He’s never cried like this before, not since he was a child, and never for himself. He doesn’t move for an interminable amount of time, vision going black in spots as his lungs heave in quick spurts. He’s dying, he’ll die, alone on the floor surrounded by sparkling things glinting all around him, symbols of joy mocking his grief. _Just let it be over,_ he thinks, and at some point he drags himself into Ike’s room and falls asleep at the foot of the bed, sobs deafened in the stale air for no one to hear. _Let it be over,_ he thinks. _I just want to be gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does anyone play phone destroyer ◑.◑


	7. Friday

Kyle wakes up damp, his eyelids sticky with sweat as he blinks into pale light. He pushes himself up and his palm squishes into a pile of vomit on the bedspread. He blinks down at it, wipes his mouth. He’d have choked if he hadn’t been on his side. A little miracle for the condemned. 

He thought he would’ve been drunk enough to black out, wiping the night from his memory and leaving only a blank where he ripped his own life apart. But he remembers every detail with the wavy, cloudy filter of inebriation, the peaks of his own anger and the pit of his decision. He tries to stand and faints, just a little, falling back on the bed. He tries two more times before he makes it to the shower, curling into himself in the tub as the water rains down. He waits until the water runs cold, then turns it off, waits for it to reheat, and repeats the process. He floats back into sleep, dreaming of the water spilling over the lip of the tub and running down the stairs in a cascade, freezing at the doorways so he’s trapped inside by the ice, never to leave again. He opens his mouth and drinks from the spray once he’s desperate, stomach churning as it trickles down his esophagus. He pukes again and cups the tub faucet with his hand to wash the runny spew down the drain. 

He puts on his shitty pajamas—Stan’s clothes reek of Kyle’s vomit—and chugs the remainder of the Pedialyte left in the fridge. He holds it down with difficulty, leaning against the kitchen counter for almost an hour as he bites back the nausea. Every surface is littered with debris and the living room is worse, smoke smell baked into the furniture and something dark staining the wall by the TV. The tree leans in the corner, Token’s jacket gone and drips of sap melted into the carpet. He sits on the couch, chips crunching underneath him and closes his eyes. He’s thankful for how close he feels to death if only for the fact that it lets him succumb to sleep that much easier.

He finds his phone when he wakes, 12:42 PM. There are over 40 missed calls from his mom, 15 from his dad and even a few from Ike. Countless messages, mostly threats, detailing his ensuing punishments in large blocks of text. Even Ike had texted him, _fuck dude_ , a nod to either Kyle’s boldness or stupidity. It doesn’t feel as awful as he thought it would. Maybe that’s a silver lining, he thinks, now everything else in life will have to measure up to that moment, and he’s hard pressed to think of anything that will beat it. He nibbles on a stale packet of saltines and sends an empty prayer to any possible deities out there as he calls his mother. 

To his surprise, it’s his father who picks up. “Oh good, so you’re not dead.”

“Dad?”

“Hey buddy. Look, I’m gonna level with you—you’re fucked.”

Kyle sighs. “I know.”

“Honestly, kid, I’ve been married to your mother for 23 years and I’ve never seen her this mad before—”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“—And I almost lost the house gambling, remember that? Ha! And I thought that was bad.”

“Ok, I get it. Is she there?”

“You actually want to talk to her?”

Kyle grits his teeth, picking a saltine apart with his fingernails. “I just want to get it over with.” 

“Alright, she’s in the lobby, I’ll go grab her.”

His father puts the phone down and a stream of vomit comes up with Kyle’s burp. Something muffles on the other side.

“So do you want to be baked or buried?”

“Ike, put Mom on the phone.”

“She’s not here yet. You’re gonna die, dude, I’m not kidding.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Glad to hear you’re so cut up about it.”

“You sound like shit.”

“I feel like shit.” He’s sweating again, the cushions under his thighs turning damp. 

“How many people came? Did you score?”

Kyle scoffs. “Like I’d tell you.”

“You didn’t let anyone in my room, did you?”

Kyle thinks of the puke on the bedspread, it’s probably dry by now.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to check to make sure nothing’s missing.”

“I swear to god, Kyle, if anyone took anything you’re fucking dead.”

“You’re too late, Mom’s gonna kill me, remember?” 

“I’m not fucking joking, asshole! You owe me for damages if anything is broken.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure dry cleaning will get cum stains out.”

“What what WHAT?”

Fuck. “Shit—sorry, I was just messing with Ike. Hi Mom, I know you hate me and I’m sorry.”

Her voice is just above a whisper. “Kyle, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s over for you, young man. Do you understand me?” 

“Yep. Understood.”

She goes into the specifics of her disappointment for roughly ten minutes. The complete betrayal of trust, breaking boundaries, endangering himself, his friends, their house, bothering the neighbors, and didn’t you know that someone rear-ended Mrs. Pfeiffer’s Cadillac on the street last night and now we have to pay for a new bumper, or should I say _you_ have to pay for it, young man. Kyle stays silent throughout, mm-ing and yes ma’am-ing where appropriate. She works herself into a full-on shout more than once then drops back down to seething sneers for the utter disrespect of it all. 

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? _I’m sorry?_ _"_

He’s more than sorry, he’s humiliated. He has nothing to show for all this fuss. No great memories of youthful rebellion, no story he can ever tell anyone. All things ventured, nothing gained. 

“What do you want me to say?”

“Do you think this is a joke? When we get back, you and Stanley had better have the house perfectly spotless—”

“Stan’s not here.”

His name coughs from Kyle’s throat like gagging on a bitter pill. He’d didn’t think he’d be mentioning it in this conversation, and his voice dies while his mother pauses.

“Well where is he?” She says after a moment.

“I don’t know.” He knows crying will only dehydrate him more and he’ll feel worse for it later, but it comes anyway, tears gliding silently down his cheeks.

“Is he with his parents?” She sounds confused, thinks somehow he should know, maybe by intuition.

“I don’t know. He left, I don’t know where he went.” His voice only gets thick at the end, and he’s hopeful that she won’t notice. Pity would be worse than scorn.

“Well then you’d better start cleaning, mister.” There’s a hitch in her tone, she can’t quite commit to the anger. He must sound bad for her to drop the bit even this much. “You are going to call me at seven p.m. every day, do you understand me? Every single day. I don’t care what you’re doing, seven p.m. you’re on that phone.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And if you miss even one phone call I am getting on the next flight home. I will leave the one vacation I’ve had in years just for you, do you hear me?”

Oh good, an extra helping of guilt, just what he needed. There aren’t many things to do in Toronto on Christmas Eve, so they’re taking a walking tour his dad looked up online. They’re leaving in ten minutes so his mother gets off the phone, threatening again her hasty return should anyone hear even a peep of noise come out of that house. Kyle says goodbye, that he’s looking forward to their conversation at seven p.m. He hauls himself off the sofa to strip Ike’s bed for the laundry. 

He goes to his room and pulls off his own sheets, keeping them at arm's length. He doesn’t want to risk smelling them, avoidant of any reminders of Stan. As his sickness fades the other pain settles in, so he tries his best to keep it at bay while he can. Cleaning is effective at first, and there’s a seemingly endless amount to do. He wonders if he can stretch it out over the next two weeks, working it like a 9 to 5 day job with weekends to himself. He doesn’t think he’ll really want the breaks, but realistically there won’t be enough to do unless he plans on repainting. It’ll be fine. He can tolerate letting his feelings flood in for two days at a time. He’ll get used to it. Each memory that sluices in between his thoughts of, _gotta get another trash bag, should I vacuum or sweep_ , feels like venom pricking in the fine capillaries of his lungs. It hurts to breathe if he lets it sit too long then has to walk outside into the freshly fallen snow, do a lap of the backyard and come back inside to calm down. 

While taking a wad of steel wool to the sap on the carpet, Kyle remembers the carol Stan hummed over the tree, playing on a loop in his head for the next thirty minutes. He makes himself a real lunch of chicken soup and microwave garlic bread. It tastes like eating a sponge—he’d never tried one before and let Stan coax him into buying them when they were in the frozen aisle. He had an instinct they’d be disgusting and he was right. The soup is ok, luckily, and he does another load of laundry from every rag, towel and carpet he can find. Hopefully his parents won’t be angry about running up the water bill. They can just add it to his tab. 

He folds Stan’s freshly washed and dried clothes in a pile, leaves them on top of the dryer. First he tries glazing his eyes over as he handles the clothes, then decides that’s cowardly and he needs practice confronting this with neutrality. Even if Stan drops out it’s likely he’ll see him again somewhere in town, it’s not like there are many places to go. And most of his and Kenny’s clients are Kyle’s classmates, so they might even hang around campus still. Stan doesn’t disappear from his life just because they’re—whatever they are to each other now. ‘Separated’ implies there was ever a together, but ‘no longer speaking’ sounds childish and reductive of how gutting it feels. He is gutted, shredded, and hollow just underneath the flesh of his abdomen, remnant organs twisted together in knots. Something clawed out of him last night and now that it’s gone, he misses the monster he’d grown to love in the darkness. Harboring that shameful secret had come to feel like a part of himself, and without the secret it’s difficult to say what defines the parts of himself that the light never sees. Maybe there’s nothing to see at all. Kyle is whatever anyone says he is, whatever he looks like. He’s a ginger, he’s a Jew, he’s a fag. He’s a privileged asshole and a pisspoor excuse for a friend. He’s worse than Stan ever was, always ready to turn a blind eye, always ready to believe the easiest excuse. Stan will be much better off without him. Things would never stay the same past high school no matter what, and Kyle had vague plans to spend college getting over Stan anyway. The timing’s all right. 

He didn’t often go there, but when he used to think about coming out to Stan, Stan’s reaction was usually positive. Unsurprised, a little awkward, but Kyle expected fumbling support at least. Something along the lines of, _I’m glad you told me, I’m here for you no matter what._ Empty platitudes that he could be bitter about later when they drifted apart. He didn’t expect total silence, a refusal to even acknowledge it. Then again, he never imagined admitting his feelings to Stan, so he’s not sure exactly which expectations Stan disappointed. 

_I never fucked with you. And I never, ever pitied you._

Of course Stan never pitied him, Kyle’s life is everything he ever wanted. He thinks of his mother screaming over the phone, the threats and the chores and the disappointment. He wouldn’t trade any of that for a day as Randy’s son. He can’t think about what waits for Stan back at home, if he even did go back home. It’s none of his business, just like Stan said. He doesn’t have permission to worry about him anymore, all part of the settlement. He should exercise his right and stop giving a shit. Stan’s probably doing just that—getting fucked up with Kenny and trying to score with whoever will have them. He’s not worried about Kyle, the aftermath, any of it. And why would he be? Kyle is fine. He’s fine and he’ll always be fine.

The steel wool did nothing on the carpet and he resorts to clipping out the sticky bits of sap with a pair of scissors. It leaves strange pocks in the pile but it’s less noticeable than crystallized amber splatter. He hopes, anyway. He triple checks his parents’ room to make sure it’s exactly as they left it—they had put a chair in front of the door to mark it as off limits, but Kyle wouldn’t put it past his classmates to bypass this. Everything looks as he remembers it, tidy and plain, photos of him as a child from a photoshoot at Sears on the wall, leaning his head into his palm. There are more pictures of Ike than there are of Kyle, no question as to who the favorite child is. It’s fine. Kyle would probably hate his own kid too—reflecting all his worst qualities back at him and begging to be loved for it. He knows they don’t actually hate him, but securing his place as the family disappointment at least takes the guessing out of it. There’s a framed photo on the dresser from a fishing trip in sixth grade with his dad, Stan, and Randy. Back when their dads still acknowledged each other’s existence in public. Kyle smirks at the parallel, wondering what the final straw between them was. Maybe it’s a genetic trait, Broflovskis getting fed up with Marshes until someday they only come up in passing, mildly curious and mocking. He tries to imagine returning home from college, asking his parents for secondhand gossip about what Stan’s doing now. He knows they’ll be delighted to pore over the salacious details, brag about how right they always were when it came to that family.

Kyle gets a notification on his phone— _Craig Tucker tagged you in a photo_. He opens it as a reflex and regrets it the second the image loads. His living room lit up by a flashbulb, faces frozen in half-expressions and blurred with movement. Kyle stands in a circle of Bradley, Mark and Token, mouth open as he speaks. Kyle doesn’t remember contributing to that conversation, sees Stan on the other side of the image, a wide smile stretched across his face. His eyes are closed and Bebe stands in front of him, her face obscured and tucked into Stan’s neck. Kyle clicks through a few other photos, random shots of him cleaning in the background, letting Stan, Kenny and Bebe outside to see the snowmen. The last picture shows Clyde in the foreground with Cartman, flexing their biceps for the camera. Kyle is on the stairs with Butters in the upper right corner, and nearly hidden in complete shadow on the bottom left is Stan, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut. Kyle knows this expression, he’s seen it a handful of times, when Stan is on the verge of tears, like he can plug up the ducts if he tries hard enough. Bebe’s gone, so maybe he was hurt by her wandering off with Clyde. Except Clyde’s in the picture, so where was she? Kyle can’t do this, can’t rehash it all in his head wondering how everything pulled apart. It isn’t healthy, nothing productive will come of it.

_I never fucked with you._

Kyle especially can’t think about this. What he thinks and what he knows don’t line up, making his chest hurt every time he gets close to the thought. Stan is gone, left and done with, and this says more than any words exchanged between them. He calls his mother at seven and says almost nothing for twenty minutes until she says goodnight and hangs up. 

He vacuums and mops every square inch of the house, scrubs the bathtub and toilets, swiping away dried vomit droplets, his or Stan’s, it’s too hard to tell. His appetite rears its meek head until he succumbs to a bag of pretzels that leaves his lips stinging from the salt. It’s 9:46 PM and he goes to turn on the TV, maybe there will be an infomercial he can pass out to. He punches the power button on the remote, then again, angling it in different directions. Nothing. He opens the cover—AAA batteries—rummages through the junk drawer for replacements. AA, 9-volt, watch batteries in a pack of 6. Fuck. It’s set to snow again soon but Kyle can’t bear the thought of an evening without distraction, he’ll die, he’ll get drunk, he’ll try to text Stan. He grabs the warmest things he can find and heads out to the corner store, bracing himself against the frosted air. 

No one else is dumb or lonely enough to be outside on Christmas Eve this late, and Kyle appreciates the solitude. He shares a nod of camaraderie with the cashier—his family is one of the only Muslim ones in South Park—and he too has the look of someone who deeply does not care about Christian holidays. Kyle grabs a candy bar and a diet Coke with the batteries and wishes him an early happy new year. 

The bottle stiffens in his hand as the contents freeze, and when the cold starts to hurt Kyle’s hand he shoves it in his jacket pocket. This works until a block later it falls from his pocket, clattering to the pavement and rolling away from him.

“Ha!” Someone snorts. “Nice one.”

Kyle looks up and finds himself five feet away from Eric Cartman, sitting on a wall in the park and smirking back at him. Kyle withers, grabbing his bottle where it rolled under a parked car and dusting it off on his jacket. 

“What are you doing out here?” Kyle looks around at the deserted street, shivering inside his layers. 

“I’m meeting somebody.” Cartman rests his left foot on his knee, fussing with his beanie.

“Who?”

“None of your fucking business, butthole.”

“Great.” Kyle grins with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “Later.”

“So what happened last night? Did you finally get your period?”

“Fuck off, fat ass.” Kyle should walk away now. His feet are poised to turn and run from this, but a nagging part of himself wonders if this isn’t exactly what he needs. Why self-flagellate when you can outsource the work?

“You and Stan had a little lover’s quarrel, huh?”

Kyle bristles. “It’s not like that.”

Cartman laughs. “Are you fuckin serious, dude? Everyone knows you’ve been diddling each other at your gay little sleepovers for years, you don’t have to lie about it.”

“I’m not lying about anything.”

“Are you tired of being the bottom bitch? You could totally take him, if you wanted.”

“Stop being fucking disgusting, Cartman.”

“It’s true, Stan’s a pussy. Might as well fuck him like one.”

“No he’s not.” Kyle wonders why he’s defending Stan, then remembers that his instinct to contradict Cartman trumps even heartbreak. 

“Stan _is_ a pussy. That’s a widely known fact, Kyle.”

“Oh is it?” Kyle rolls his eyes.

“Damn straight. He was afraid of me for years, I don’t blame him for that—”

“In what fucking universe is Stan afraid of you? What are you gonna do, sit on him?”

“It’s not just a strength thing. Think about it, Kyle.” Cartman pulls out a baggie of carrots from his pocket, starts gnawing on one like he’s fucking Bugs Bunny. “Stan has what we call a ‘weak constitution.’ The guy hasn’t had an original thought in his life.”

“Fuck you, dude.”

“It’s true, Kyle! Stan always agrees with the last person who talked. Doesn’t matter what they’re saying.”

“You can’t just say shit and then say ‘it’s true.’ That doesn’t make it true.”

“Oh really? How come he never stood up for you back then?”

Kyle’s throat pinches. “What are you talking about?”

“Look. I’ll admit, I have a very special skill set that allows me to get the last word in every argument. Some call it a gift.” He shrugs, crunches. “All I had to do was call you a stupid Jew and that meant nothing else you said mattered.”

“You’re so full of shit, Cartman.”

“Full of shit and right.”

It pains Kyle to admit that he isn’t exactly wrong in his assessment. It took years for Kyle to even acknowledge Cartman’s abuse as bullying when all their friends acted like it was just regular teasing. Guys rip on other guys, it’s normal. Nevermind that no one else was targeted specifically for their religion and hair color to the extent that they were forced to sit at different tables, forced into constant defensiveness because unless he corrected them most people just believed whatever Cartman said was true. Nobody else had to lobby for their right to exist against a classmate trying to reignite genocidal sympathies. Instead it was always, _Calm down Kyle, you’re feeding into it, just ignore him and it’ll stop._ Stan always insisted he hated Cartman as much as Kyle, but why then the silence? Why did it take Cartman getting new friends to finally free himself from daily ridicule? 

Then Kyle remembers Randy, tearing down his front door two days ago screaming about his son being a waste of space. Kyle chews his lip, looks at the perfect circle of ice balanced on top of a sprinkler. “Stan’s not afraid of you,” he says. “He’s afraid of confrontation. It’s different.”

Around a bite, “Same bull crap, Kyle. He’s a fucking loser. I don’t know why you thought he was such hot shit, you were always cooler than him.”

Kyle replays the words in his head until they sound real. “Excuse me?”

“What?” Cartman looks side to side like someone might be approaching. 

Kyle sputters. “If I was always cooler than him, then why did you give me such a hard fucking time?!”

Cartman snorts. “Pot kettle, asshole.”

“Um—what?”

He belches into his fist, pounds on his chest. “Do you think you went a single day when we were hanging out where you didn’t call me a fat ass?”

Kyle opens his mouth to defend himself then closes it, blinking and scoffing like that’ll jumpstart his brain. 

“You want my advice?” Cartman throws the empty baggie toward a trash can and misses by about a yard.

“Not really.”

“Stan’s gonna be brain dead by 30. Cut your losses.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” His stomach is hurting, the pretzels churning in bubbles of acid. 

“I actually do, Kyle. I did my final project on cirrhosis last year, if you recall.”

Kyle remembers. He was being a total asshole, lecturing how heavy drinkers are lowlifes who deserve the early end they get. Stan was pissed, said it was pretty fucking rich coming from Cartman when his mom used to do literal crack. At the time Kyle thought he was pissed on Randy’s behalf, but now… Stop it, stop. This is Cartman.

“That doesn’t make you a medical expert,” he spits back.

“Psh. It doesn’t take a medical expert to point out white trash.”

“You know what? Fuck you, Cartman. Maybe Stan’s a pussy but at least he’s not a fucking psychopath.”

Cartman sighs. “Really, Kyle, just go change your tampon—”

“He didn’t stand up to you because he’s a nice person. _You_ are the loser he felt sorry for.” 

Cartman’s typing something on his phone, pauses a moment before looking up. “Are you still here?”

Kyle boils, gnawing anger burning in every muscle. “Eat shit and die, you fat fuck.”

Cartman barks a laugh. “Nice one, Jew.” He winks at Kyle like he’s enjoying their return to juvenile bickering. Kyle turns on his heel and walks home, squinting his eyes against the wind as snow starts to fall. 

“Fuck him,” Kyle says to no one a block away from home. He doesn’t even know exactly who he’s cursing, and it’s liberating to realize he’s now the kind of person who talks to themselves in the street, uncaring of what anyone else might think. 

His house is too warm, stuffy and discomforting, so he rips off his scarves and layers and leaves them where they land on the carpet. He’s the maid now, who gives a shit? He stomps up and down the stairs, slamming doors and muttering to himself. He wants a number of things, but mainly to shrug off his thoughts that are spiraling into an accelerating whirlpool, threatening to suck him under entirely. Stan’s probably smoking his Christmas gift to Kyle right now, although how much of a gift is it if it didn’t even cost him money? Kyle thinks he can probably sell his gift to Stan on Ebay, hopefully make back what he spent. He’ll need it for all he owes to his parents and the neighbor. It’s almost 10:30 now, and that’s late enough to go to bed. His body still feels half-rotted from the morning’s hangover. It shouldn’t be hard to let his consciousness slip into sleep, so he shuts off the light and lies down in sheets that smell like nothing but the inside of a dryer.

Except it _is_ difficult to sleep. He dozes off twice for half-hour stretches between imaginary conversations with classmates when school resumes. People asking Kyle why he kicked everyone out, where Stan is, what happened between them. Or the opposite: everyone already knows—Stan couldn’t keep his mouth shut—but they do him the courtesy of never addressing it, making for an easy transition to outcast. There’s probably some cough syrup in the medicine cabinet he can pilfer. He hates the weird dreams they give him but at least he’d be asleep. He rolls out of bed and as his feet hit the floor, his heel comes down on something hard. He swears and flashes his phone light down—sticking out just an inch from under the bed is the corner of Stan’s guitar case.

Shit. They’d hidden it there before the party started, Stan paranoid about people breaking or stealing it or worse, asking him to play something. Kyle wants to die thinking that he’ll have to talk to Stan again to give it back. Maybe he can leave it in the Marshes’ backyard, claim naivete if someone steals it off the porch. But a problem later provides an opportunity now—Kyle pulls the case out and unbuckles it, remembering that Stan stashed his pipe in one of the compartments. 

There’s not much left in the bowl and most of it is blackened to ash. He tries to take a hit anyway, coughing for over a minute as a piece of char shoots to the back of his throat on the inhale. Useless. He plays with the frayed edge of the guitar strap, hissing and pulling his fingers back when something slices him. He pushes aside the neck of the guitar and finds a small spiral-bound notepad, like the kind waitresses have, tucked underneath. It fits in his palm, a scraggly bit of metal poking out like a witch’s finger. He adds getting a tetanus shot to his list of things to do before his parents return. He flips over the red cover, no obvious markings on the outside. The pages are mostly guitar tabs, titles of the songs underlined at the top of the page. He recognizes a lot of them, stuff by the Cure and R.E.M., sad bands that Kyle never took to liking. There are a lot that aren’t familiar, some titled with initials or doodled stars, one with a squiggly face whose lyrics begin: _Fate is over, open your eyes / There is no hope, no second chance._ Kyle has an unkind thought and remembers why Stan never wanted him to hear his original songs. Three pages from the end, he pauses, ice hitting in the center of his chest.

_K_

_(intro)_

_All quiet in this room_

~~_I want_ ~~_I won’t remember_ ~~_the way_ ~~_anyway_

_(finish later)_

_I know you’ll never believe me_

_How hard I try for you_

_I try I try (x6)_

_But no matter what I do_

_To you_

_I’m always_

_See-through_

_I_ ~~_hang_ ~~_stick around for you (x3)_

_When you leave I will too_

Kyle closes the notebook and tosses it away from him, covering his eyes with his hands. Oh god oh fuck oh shit god damn it fuck fuck no.

_I never fucked with you._

Kyle googles the lyrics just in case, finds results for disambiguations that hardly resemble the words. There are Greek myths like this, where the hero seals their own fate just by virtue of trying to escape it. Kyle wouldn’t call himself a hero; he’s a fucking idiot. He’s a selfish asshole who can’t put aside his self-loathing for five minutes to see how badly he’s hurting the only person who means anything. Why couldn’t he listen? Why? Because it would’ve taken bravery he doesn’t have to hear what Stan said, all of it, the surface and the core. Being drunk is an excuse, hating himself is an excuse, probability and lists and doing what’s best is an excuse. Now it’s time to reap what’s been sown and Kyle thinks he’ll choke, his breath stuttering and catching in his throat.

He calls Stan before he can talk himself out of it and it goes straight to voicemail. Again, and one more time for good measure. Maybe Stan blocked him, that would be an appropriate response. Kyle’s surprised he hadn’t tried it himself already. He gets on his computer and checks Facebook, hoping to god he’ll see Stan high and laughing for Kenny’s camera, any indication that he’s at least alive. Nothing, nothing and nothing. He pounds his elbows on the desktop— _Fuck!_ —and hangs his head in his hands trying to stop his lip from shaking. He feels something primal and terrified twisting in his gut, like seeing a bolt of lightning in the distance with storm clouds over your head. An image of Stan standing on his tiptoes on top of a chair, straining straining before the chair is gone and his feet twitch in the air. 

Kenny picks up on the second ring. “Dude, is he with you?”

“What?” Kyle realizes only then how awful he sounds, more spit than sound coming off his tongue. 

“You didn’t answer my fucking texts.”

Kyle pulls the phone from his face and sees two missed texts from Kenny during the time he’d slept: _is stan w you?_ Followed forty minutes later by, _?_

“Sorry, I wasn’t awake. I called to see if he was with you.”

“Yeah, well.” The TV’s playing on Kenny’s end, tires screeching and his parents’ laughter in the background.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Kyle gets off the floor and starts dressing, packing the same bag he had last Sunday night. 

“When you threw your bitch fit and kicked me out, remember?”

Kyle jogs down the stairs, searching for the car keys. “Yeah, I fucking remember. You didn’t see him after that?”

“That was honestly kind of a dick move, dude. A lot of people are pissed at you.”

“I don’t fucking care, Kenny, I need to know where Stan is.”

“Why isn’t he with you?”

Kyle finds the keys on a bookshelf, he’d put them there while dusting earlier. “It doesn’t matter, ok? He’s not with me and I need to find him. Are you sure he didn’t come to your place last night?”

“Fuck if I know, dude. I didn’t even go home. I got so depressed coming down from the ecstasy I laid down on the train tracks.”

“That’s not fucking funny, asshole! I need to find him, I think he’s going to do something stupid.”

“...Like what?”

“I don’t know, dude.” Kyle can’t speak the things he’s seeing in his head. His voice pinches. “Has he called you?”

“No, but I texted him like 100 times today. I think his phone is off.” 

Stan has no reason to block Kenny, so that’s probably true. But it doesn’t tell Kyle anything meaningful—Stan’s phone could be with him at the bottom of Stark’s Pond. He locks his front door and sprints to the car, pressing his phone to his shoulder as he starts the ignition. “I’m going out to look for him.”

“Alright,” Kenny makes a whining noise like he’s stretching. “Give me like ten minutes and I’ll come with.”

“It’s fine, I’m already in my car.”

“He’s probably at his house, I’ll go there and you can drive around.”

“Just fucking—” Kyle can’t get his seatbelt clicked and it starts locking from the feeder. “I’ve got it, I don’t need help.”

“Dude, fuck off. You don’t have a fucking monopoly on worrying about him, ok?”

Kyle sighs—he’s right. This jealous bullshit is exactly what got him in Stan’s bad books to begin with. He forfeited his right to happiness with Stan, all that matters now is making sure Stan’s still alive to find some on his own.

“I’m sorry.” The tension eases on the belt and it clicks in the holder with ease. “Just—I need you to stay at home. I’ll bring him back to your place if I find him.”

“...Uh, not to be an asshole, but wouldn’t there be more room at yours?”

Kyle almost hits his own mailbox backing up. “I doubt he’d want to stay with me.”

“Fuck dude, what’d you say to him?” 

Kyle swipes stray tears from his eyes that start to cloud his vision. “I don’t want to get into it. Can I bring him over or not?”

“Yeah, dude. Whatever you need to do. Keep me posted.”

“I will. Thanks, by the way. For helping.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Something crashes in the background. “Alright I gotta bounce, peace.”

Kyle doesn’t know whether to drive slowly so he can scan the streets or quickly so he can get to Stan’s house faster. He settles for going 30, high beams blasting through people’s windows every time he makes a turn.

_If you don’t get it now you’re never going to get it._

He was right, Stan’s always been right. This is Kyle’s M.O.—leave as soon as things get hard. Getting Stan away from Randy was the only decent thing he’d done in years and the moment it got too real he jettisoned Stan from his life without a second thought. _I don’t want forgiveness_ , he thinks. _I just don’t want him to be dead. Please god don’t let him be dead._

He parks in front of the house next door. Kyle doesn’t know what he’ll do if Randy is awake, if Stan isn’t there. The windows are dark as he approaches the house, silence when the side gate creaks open while he heads around back. From the sliding door, everything inside looks normal, better even than the last time he saw it. He holds his breath as he crosses the threshold—he can’t imagine Randy would be too happy to find Kyle breaking into his house. He has to be ready for anything. 

He’s hit by a distinct sense of déjà vu, only now he’s as afraid as he should’ve been the first time. He tiptoes up the carpeted steps, pressing himself against the wall. The door to the master bedroom is closed, light off. Stan’s is the same; the unpatched hole in the door remains. He hasn’t exhaled since he’s been in the house and as he raps lightly on the door he realizes that he’s still praying. 

Nothing. His chest is tight like the beginnings of a panic attack. He could try the door knob but he’s terrified of what he’ll find. He knocks again, softer and longer.

“Mom?” Stan’s voice is quiet and hopeful on the other side. Kyle is too surprised to respond when Stan opens the door, stunned expression staring back at him. “Oh.”

Kyle whispers, “Are you ok?”

Stan looks to Randy’s door, puts a finger up to his lips then ushers Kyle inside. He turns the knob as he shuts the door so it’s completely silent. Kyle waits by the dresser for more instruction. His panic that Stan would be dead in a pile of vomit feels only somewhat ridiculous now. He doesn’t look _good_ , but there’s enough doubt for Kyle to let go of the feeling that he’s pulling Stan back from the edge. 

“What are you doing here?” Stan leans against his bed, arms crossed over his chest. Even in the shadows Kyle can see the dark bags under his eyes. 

“Sorry—I tried to call but it went to voicemail.”

“My dad took my phone. And my laptop.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Kyle feels sick, has Stan even slept at all?

He shrugs, looks at the carpet. “It’s fine.”

“Um,” Kyle clears his throat. “Is your mom coming, or…?”

“I don’t know.” Stan crosses his arms tighter, gripping his elbows, sucking in his cheeks. “I tried calling her from the house phone after he went to sleep, I thought maybe…”

Kyle won’t embarrass him by asking further. He reminds himself to spit on Stan’s mom if he ever sees her again. 

“When did you come back?” How normally they’re talking feels weirder than if Stan had told him to get out and never come back. Stan being alive is a massive relief, but this odd courtesy between them unsettles Kyle still.

“Last night. I woke him up on accident.” Dark chuckle, eyes tipping up as he remembers. “Honestly the laptop’s probably broken, he threw it pretty hard. I don’t know about the phone.”

Kyle swallows, nods like it doesn’t hurt. “What happened?”

“Not much. He was pissed, I guess. Says I have to stay in here for as many days as I was gone.”

“Like, in your room?”

“Yeah.”

Kyle squints. “What if you have to use the bathroom?”

“He gave me a bottle.” Stan smirks at Kyle’s face, the disgust he couldn’t withhold. “It’s fine, it’s not like I want to be out there with him anyway.”

Kyle can’t tell how much he’s joking, his voice sounds like someone else. “Are you actually ok?”

“Yes? What do you want me to say?” Here the annoyance comes back and if anything it’s a comfort.

“I don’t know, nothing, just be honest.”

Stan purses his lips. “You should probably go, he’ll flip if he sees you.”

“Um, yeah, speaking of that.” Kyle rallies all his strength to hold Stan’s eye contact, keep his face neutral and away from pity. “I was talking with Kenny earlier, and—” He’s slipping back into cowardice already. Give Kenny all the credit to avoid what, seeming eager? Like he gives a shit? “We don’t think you should stay here.”

Stan stares. “Ok?”

Kyle sighs. “Stan, seriously? You don’t have to stay with me—I know you’re pissed and you have every right to be. I’m not trying to fix anything, I just need to make sure you’re safe.”

Stan huffs. “Cool apology.”

“It’s not an apology. I’m not asking for forgiveness, ok? I—” Kyle hadn’t expected to have to fight this hard, but he should’ve. “I’m not gonna let you stay here with this fucking asshole who wants you dead.”

“Jesus,” Stan’s eyes flick to the door. “Will you keep your voice down?”

Kyle straightens. “Not until you leave with me.”

“Kyle—”

At full volume, “Stan.”

“Fine—fuck, just shut the fuck up.” His words are hissed and Kyle reminds himself that sparing himself from Stan’s ire is not relevant to the plan. 

“Ok. Great,” he whispers. “I brought the car so let’s get everything we can. We’ll just throw it in the back.”

“What, like, _everything?”_

“Everything you want to keep.”

A silent acknowledgement passes between them that this isn’t packing for a sleepover or a staycation at a friend’s house. This is leaving home, for good. Stan looks around him, hand on the back of his neck. His eyes dart to the door and finally he nods and asks in a whisper if Kyle can bring down the duffel on the top shelf of his closet. 

They work in silence, Kyle piling Stan’s clothes on his bed—even the plastic hangers clicking against each other feels threateningly loud. Kyle types in a note on his phone where the car is, how to coordinate trips there and back to make sure they get out as much as possible as quietly as possible. Stan sneaks some trash bags from the kitchen and they make five trips out to the car until Stan’s room looks fairly bare. They argue in whispers about whether to take Stan’s board games— _yes there’s room, it’s my house I know how much room we have just bring them_ —pausing every time they hear a click or creak. Kyle asks if Stan wants to bring any of his posters, action movies and sports teams that he put up when they were just kids. Stan shakes his head, says it’s fine, they should leave. It’s almost 3 AM and Stan is starting to wither, staring into space and moving more slowly. Kyle wants to ask if he’s eaten or slept since the night before, but he can’t risk speaking aloud for anything less than necessary, and he gets the feeling Stan wouldn’t want to hear his worry anyway. They took a break while Stan thumbed through his bookshelf, grabbing yearbooks and music magazines for the last run down, and now Stan’s backpack is stiff and bulging, no room left. He gestures for Kyle to walk out first. 

Kyle peers down the hall, doors darkened and quiet. He pads into the hall and watches as Stan looks around, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in spurts. Kyle looks away until Stan’s closed the door in silence, nodding at Kyle to go ahead.

He trips over himself on the third step from the bottom.

“Good evening, boys.” Randy sits on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table in a robe and boxers. His shirt is stained on the collar, a sliver of fabric riding up on his gut so his pale skin peeks through. 

Stan stops behind Kyle on the stairs, bumping into his back. 

Randy reaches forward and grabs an unopened beer bottle on the coffee table, pops the cap with the edge of the wood. “Where are you headed?”

“None of your fucking business,” Stan says. Kyle hopes only he can hear the shake in his voice.

“Is that so? Because I thought we’d come to an agreement.” He stands and rolls his shoulders, sauntering toward the stairs. “You’re staying put, isn’t that right, Stanley?”

Stan sighs and pushes past Kyle then Randy, heading for the door. 

“HEY!” 

Stan stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn.

“I’m fucking talking to you.”

Kyle scans the room, the pockets of Randy’s robe. He doesn’t see a gun but he can’t be sure. 

“Turn the fuck around and look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Stan waits only a second before doing as he’s told. 

Randy takes a pull off his beer. “Now. Tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing leaving this house.”

Stan doesn’t answer. His gaze falls somewhere at Randy’s knees, his fists shoved into his pockets. 

Randy takes a step forward. “Go on. Say it.”

Stan looks up for just a moment then back again. “I’m moving out.”

“What was that?” Randy leans in, hand cupped around his ear. 

Louder, “I’m moving out.”

“Huh,” Randy leans back on his heels. “That’s what I thought I heard. Ha—Ha!” He starts laughing, looking back at Kyle as if he’s in on it. He takes a sip of his beer and punches his chest as he coughs. “That’s a good one. Now get the fuck back upstairs, Stan. Come on.” He claps his hand on Stan’s shoulder, smiling back at Kyle.

Stan wrestles away, taking a step back. “No,” he says, eyes still on the floor.

Randy cocks his head. “No?”

“No.” Stan shakes his head, wiping tears with the heel of his palm like batting away a fly. Kyle wagers how obvious it would be if he pulled out his phone, if they’d hear the dial tone for 911. 

“Kyle,” Randy turns around, blinking at him. “You’re gonna need to give me a moment with my son.”

Kyle says nothing, gripping the handrail like he might fall.

“Stan,” Randy whips back around. “I’m gonna say this one time, alright?” Stan backs away for every step Randy takes forward, stopping when he hits the wall. There’s at least four feet between them but Stan is shrinking as if his dad were bearing down on him. 

“You’re not leaving this house. You think you’re a big man now? You think you can make it out there all on your own? Huh? Who are you gonna stay with, his family?” Randy jerks a thumb back at Kyle. “You think they wanna take in your sorry ass, pay your bills, feed your big fucking mouth? You’re staying right here, because we are a God. Damn. Family. Do you understand me? You don’t walk out on your family. Your mom’s gonna come home and we’re gonna be a fucking family again. No more of this sitting on your ass bullshit. I got your grades, dumb ass, I know you’re not going to school.” He steps to the coffee table, extending the opened envelope to Stan. He takes a sip. “Soon as that school opens I’m taking you out of there and you’re going to get a real job, alright? Start contributing to this family so your mom doesn’t have to break her back for you, fucking little ingrate. Alright?” He takes a step forward, steady on his feet. Kyle had assumed he was drunk, but the chilling reality hits him that all this is behaved. “Now. You’re gonna shake my hand, get the fuck back upstairs, and tell your faggot friend to get the fuck out of my house. Is that clear?”

Stan is still except for the heaves of his shoulders.

“I said, is that _fucking_ clear?”

Stan sucks in a loud breath, shaking his head. “No,” he chokes out. “No.”

There’s no time to scream as the bottle shatters on the wall centimeters from Stan’s face. 

“YOU WANNA TELL ME NO AGAIN, STAN? HUH? TELL ME FUCKING NO AGAIN.”

Stan crumples to the floor, shaking and holding the side of his face. Randy stands over him, taunting, kicking at his shoes, “Get the fuck up, you piece of shit. I said get up!”

Kyle is across the room, shoving Randy’s shoulders with all his strength. He backs up as Randy turns, slowly, breath puffing with rage. Kyle swallows around his fear stuck like a gourd in his throat, daring himself to look in Randy’s eyes. 

“Stop, ok?” Kyle’s voice is three octaves higher than normal. “Leave him alone. He’s 18, he can do what he wants!” Stan is curled into himself, sobbing. They just need a little time. Time enough for Stan to realize he’s stalling and make a run for it. 

“Kyle,” Randy steps toward him, that awful calm voice again. “Leave. Now.”

Kyle backs up, luring Randy from the front door. “Fuck you.”

“I’m not asking. This is a family matter between me and my son.”

“What family?” He stumbles as he backs into the edge of the coffee table. “They all left you.”

Randy’s face cracks for just a second before twisting into a sick smile. He blinks and fake-chuckles. “Count of ten you’re out that door. 10. 9—”

“No, you know what? Fuck you, Randy.” Kyle’s vision tunnels with rage, words barreling out of him. “You have no right to tell anyone how to live their life. You’re the biggest fucking joke in this entire town. Everyone knows it—everyone. Your daughter left you because you’re a piece of shit and then your wife and now your son. They did it because you _failed._ You fucking failed to be a decent human being and you have no one to blame but yourself. You’re gonna get yours, Randy, I swear to fucking—”

Kyle nearly dodges the hit but not completely, fist whamming into his shoulder like a brick. He hisses and doubles over, banging his spine against the bannister. He watches Randy’s feet move forward, looks up at his cocked fist and then follows Stan’s as it connects with his father’s face, square on his cheek. Randy topples backward and to the side, tripping over himself and knocking his head on the arm of the couch. Stan is taller than his father, always and especially now, towering above him with a trickle of blood streaming from his ear. 

To Kyle, he says, “Let’s go.” Stan’s eyes are wide like he surprised even himself. Kyle rallies and heads to the front door. He looks back at Stan still standing over his father, Randy panting and groaning on the floor. 

“Stan?” Kyle asks. Wind whips through the front door and into the living room, his teeth beginning to chatter. Stan looks back at him, blinks and nods, returning to this side of the earth. 

He looks down at his father, face unreadable. “Have a nice fucking life,” he says, then joins Kyle at the door and they’re gone. 

They shut the car doors at the same time, sound whooshing out to pure silence. Stan is the first to break.

“Oh my god.” He’s biting down a grin and looking at Kyle who can’t hold himself back. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Dude. You knocked your dad out.” Their laughter bounces off the upholstery, beating back at them in waves. 

Stan whistles. “Jesus Christ. That was insane.”

“That was incredible.”

“We should probably go though, he wasn’t completely knocked out.”

“Right, totally.” Kyle starts the car and books it down the street, going 50 in the 30 zone. 

“Hold on,” Kyle says after a block. “Shit. That’s assault. He could call the cops, he’s gonna press charges.”

Stan snorts. “That’d be way worse for him than for me. I think he might even have a warrant out on him.”

“Oh shit, for what?”

“I don’t know, he went out of town last summer, and—whatever, it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to do anything. Holy shit. Dude.” He leans over to grab Kyle’s shoulders, shaking them. “Dude!”

“I’m gonna crash,” Kyle laughs, pumping the brakes. 

Stan is practically bouncing in his seat for the rest of the ride. Kyle shares the giddiness and the adrenaline rush, but has just enough room to guilt himself for not calling the cops. Randy deserves to be shut away for life and Kyle could’ve made it happen. It doesn’t sour the victory entirely but he regrets it in heady spasms of anger for weeks. 

They take in only the essentials—Kyle’s energy is waning by the second and they trudge inside with arms full of clothes and toiletries. They dump the bags at the foot of Kyle’s bed and Stan jumps onto the mattress, rolling on his back and smiling at the ceiling.

“Holy fucking shit.” Soft laughter bubbles from his chest. 

“Ah-ah,” Kyle barks. “Up! Off! Bathroom, now.”

“Dude, why?” 

“Because I just washed the sheets and you’re gonna get blood on them. Let’s go.”

Stan rolls his eyes and heaves himself up, crossing to the bathroom with Kyle right behind. He sits cross-legged on the toilet seat while Kyle scrounges for cotton pads and hydrogen peroxide. A piece of glass sliced Stan at the exact juncture where his earlobe meets the side of his face. Nothing too deep, doesn’t seem like he’ll need stitches, which is a miracle he can be grateful for later. Now all he sees is Stan’s face as he flinched, hears him sobbing on the floor while Kyle stands there, watching. 

Stan hisses as Kyle swabs. “Ouch, dude, fuck.”

“Calm down, hydrogen peroxide doesn’t hurt.”

“How about I pour it on your wound, huh?”

“Be my guest.” Kyle continues his ministrations, thankful for the excuse not to let his mind wander too far. Stan’s eyelids are swollen and puffy, his whole nose is red and his upper lip looks raw. 

Stan breathes another laugh, they happen roughly every three minutes. “I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe _you_ did that.”

Kyle objectively did nothing, he can’t accept the thanks. “That was all you.”

“We tag-teamed him, like when we used to play wrestlers.”

“Has he ever done that before? Thrown something?” Kyle finds the tiny bandages, struggles with the wrapper.

“Oh yeah.” He back-pedals when he sees Kyle’s face. “He has horrible aim when he’s _sober_. I’m not in any danger, don’t worry.” 

There are many ways Kyle wants to respond. There’s no way Stan can spin this—what Kyle saw tonight is just a glimpse of what Stan has endured for years. To turn something so horrific into something so normal makes Randy scum, worse than scum in Kyle’s eyes. He wants to push that man in front of a train, step on his throat, hold his head underwater until he stops kicking. Voicing this will not make Stan feel better. He wraps the bandages around the cut as best he can, though he’s pretty sure as soon as he turns around one of them will unstick and fall off. At least he tried. He pats Stan’s cheek and they brush their teeth, taking turns spitting in the sink.

“When was the last time you slept?” Kyle says around his toothbrush.

Stan spits. “Mmm. I don’t know. I slept a little at home, but not much.”

“How much is a little?”

“I don’t know. Four, five hours?”

“Jesus. We’re going to bed, now.”

“Dude, I’m so amped up, I don’t know if I can.”

“Try.”

Kyle texts Kenny as they head to the bedroom. _he’s with me. we’re at home i’ll text u tomorrow._ Kenny texts back a thumbs up, then, _thanks dude._ Kyle flicks off the light and climbs into bed beside Stan, assuming their usual positions. It’s still weird. There’s a nagging feeling like there was something he needed to remind himself, only he can’t remember what it was. Stan fidgets on the mattress, settling after a few minutes with his hands locked behind his head, elbow bumping into Kyle’s ear. 

Kyle’s about to say goodnight when Stan speaks.

“Did you ever want to be Harry Potter as a kid?”

Kyle huffs a laugh. “I wanted to be Luke Skywalker.”

Stan snorts. “You would.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, I guess I kind of feel like it happened, you know?” He laughs and shifts on the bed. “I’m basically an orphan and I live with my best friend, and apparently I have a cool power to kick my dad’s ass that I didn’t know about. It just happened like, 7 years late.” 

“You don’t think your dad’s going to try and find you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Stan swallows. Kyle can hear the gears turning, worry forming to match Kyle’s. “You can call the cops if he does. You _should_ call the cops if he does.”

“I will.” Kyle means it. “What about your mom?”

“I don’t know. I mean, she might look for me.” His voice hitches up at the end and he clears his throat. “I usually hear from her by now, I don’t really know what’s up with her.” There’s a wet quality to his voice and Kyle’s heart drops. 

“I’m sorry—don’t worry about any of that, ok? Seriously. You’re staying here until I move out, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thanks.”

Kyle already has plans to research Colorado state graduation requirements, petition the district, find a GED program to enroll Stan in if all else fails. He knows he’s being a mom about it, but Stan will thank him later. Telling him would only make Stan feel guilty and he doesn’t need to, this is what Kyle’s for, so he says nothing about it. 

They lie in the dark. Kyle knows Stan is awake and maybe it’s true, he won’t be able to sleep after all that adrenaline, but it’s good enough for Kyle to fall asleep beside him again, no matter what they are to each other. 

Barely treading on the edges of sleep, Kyle hears Stan’s voice tremble into the space between them on the bed. 

“What am I going to do?” Stan asks. Kyle shifts and his hand brushes over a wet patch of tears on the sheet. 

“What?” Kyle sits up on his elbows, facing Stan.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t leave and—” His voice breaks and stutters, a sob coming out along with it. “I just don’t want to see him again. I can’t see him again I can’t—”

Kyle shushes him, ducks down and puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok, it’s going to be ok.”

“How?” Stan sounds furious but it’s swept away by despair in a moment. “I fucked up, I can’t graduate and I can’t fucking go anywhere. It’s fucking over. I just want to die.”

He sobs into Kyle’s chest who feels more afraid than when they sat in the closet, danger or death on the other side of the door. He trusts Randy’s rage more than Stan’s sadness. Kyle has pretended for so long that it isn’t real because it scares him more than anything. Like the sun exploding or climate disaster, it feels vague and dooming from very far away; it will never touch him so long as he doesn’t look for its arrival. Someday Stan will be consumed by this sadness and it will flatten the earth for Kyle, turn the oceans to fire and the air to dirt. He cannot win against it. But he has to try. He has to hold him and try as hard as he can to make him want to stay. 

“Hey,” Kyle says against Stan’s scalp. “Listen. You’re not going to stay here. You’re leaving with me.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll figure it out. I’m not leaving you here. We’ll get a restraining order against your dad. I’ll turn him in for whatever they want him for.”

Stan makes a sound that seems like a sob but is actually a laugh. “You’re gonna be a fucking bounty hunter?”

“Yes, I will.” Kyle’s heart patters just a hair slower, rubbing his hand over Stan’s back. “I don’t give a shit. If you want him gone he’s fucking gone.”

Another sob-laugh. “Jesus, ok.” He sniffs and dries his cheek on Kyle’s shirt. “You can’t do everything for me, though. I can’t just live off of you.”

“Yes you can.”

“Dude.”

“You have a job, right? Just save up for a place in Denver, maybe help pitch in for what I owe my mom and we’ll call it even. Deal?”

Stan snorts. “I thought I was digging myself an early grave.”

“Yeah, well.” Kyle sighs, he still has reservations about this. “You said it’s fine, and I trust you.” 

Stan says thanks, breath shuddering in jags as he calms. “But like,” Stan starts, voice pinching again. “How? You keep saying it’ll be ok but it’s not. I don’t want to be the loser who just follows you around and leeches off of you.”

“Can you stop?” There’s real pleading behind the anger, Kyle thinks Stan can hear it. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care what your parents think or what the school fucking thinks. You’re gonna get a diploma, or your GED, something, and you’re coming with me to Denver. Ok? I’m taking care of you. That’s it.”

Stan is quiet a moment, wiping at his eyes again and sighing. “God, I sound so pathetic.”

“Shut up. You take care of me too.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really.” His lips move against Stan’s hair. Greasy again, but he smells nice. “We take turns. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

Stan nods into his chest, and they’re asleep before Kyle has time to worry out of habit that Stan will know how he feels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my hc is that cartman is out there to meet up with cupid cartman <3 tee hee


	8. Saturday - Christmas Day

Kyle wakes up stiff but warm, sweating even as he shuffles his legs under the sheets. His eyes are still closed—that wasn’t nearly enough sleep—and he hopes he can drift off again if he concentrates hard enough. Something’s tickling his nose and he squints against the daylight invading his room. It’s just Stan’s hair. It must be past noon by now. 

He physically restrains himself from jumping when reality hits. He can’t see Stan’s face, his head is tucked under Kyle’s chin, cheek resting against his sternum. Kyle’s hand lies limp across Stan’s back, fingertips brushing his waistband. Stan’s arm is slung over Kyle’s stomach, his inhales are quiet and even. Still asleep, good. Kyle’s bladder has nothing to say for once in his life and he has to think of an alternative reason to remove himself from this compromising position. Less to do with how gay it is—though that’s a concern too—and more to do with the proximity of Stan’s forearm to his hips. He didn’t bother with pajamas last night, just a t-shirt and boxers that will hide nothing if his blood starts pumping any faster. 

With caution he grinds the heel of his palm into the mattress, scooting himself up millimeter by millimeter. Stan looks up. Not asleep.

“Hey,” he says, not at all like someone who just woke up. 

“Hi.” Kyle manages a smile back. How long has he been awake? Stan grins and glances back down, yawning. Is he actually calm about this? How is he calm about this?

“Sorry for, um.” Kyle gestures at their position, attempting to move again although Stan doesn’t budge. 

“You’re good. I don’t mind.” His fingers curl around the hem of Kyle’s shirt, thumbing at a loose thread. “I actually slept really good.”

“Cool. Nice.” How eloquent. They lie in silence for an interminable moment, Kyle sending angry telepathic messages to Stan to just fucking say something. When he doesn’t, Kyle tries, “Merry Christmas.”

Stan chuckles. “Thanks. Should I say it back, or…?”

“I have a tree in my house, so yeah, I think I’m celebrating this year.”

Stan looks up. “You _kept_ it?”

“Kind of, it’s in the garage.” Kyle’s family has bemoaned the neighbors who throw their discarded trees on the sidewalks for as long as he can remember, he wasn’t about to do the same thing himself. 

“Can we bring it back in? Please?” 

That stupid little smile. Kyle sighs. “Fine. But we need to get a tarp or something to put under it. I don’t want to maul the carpet again.”

“Do what?”

“Never mind.”

They go quiet again. Kyle’s phone is on the bedside table but he’s too afraid to check it, for the time or any missed messages and threats. For as often as he’s fantasized about being in this exact position, he’s distracted by his neck pinching as it bends against the headboard. 

He grunts. “Sorry, can I—”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Stan sits up a fraction to let Kyle move, neither making eye contact.

He resettles on his side next to Stan, just a few inches between them, facing one another. Their arms overlap between them, Stan’s fingers draping over Kyle’s wrist. 

“Is this ok?” Stan asks, and Kyle feels relief at the clear sound of his nerves. 

“Yeah, it was just my neck—”

“Cool.”

They’re swallowed by silence again. The neighbor’s car beeps in their driveway, engine groaning as it turns on. He’s lost faith in his telepathic abilities so Kyle’s anxiety turns to impatience. Someone has to fucking say something.

“Hey Stan?”

Stan glances up, eyes comically huge. “Yeah?” 

“Um, so,” he coughs. “I think I get it now. What you said, before you left the other night.” _Please don’t make me say it_ , Kyle prays. _Please for fuck’s sake just get it._

Stan blinks at him and nods. “Cool. Uh, good.” 

“Yeah, uh. Not sure if you picked up on what I was saying. That night.” 

“Which part?”

Kyle could kill him. “Um. Just like, the don’t get my hopes up thing.” 

Stan looks up then at their hands. “Oh. Yeah, I think I get it.”

Kyle nods. “Cool.” He’s not really breathing, so it’s a little confusing that he can stay conscious for this long and worry that he’s ruining it. At least _he’s_ never done anything like this before, what’s Stan’s excuse?

Kyle sighs through his nose and Stan laughs, covering his eyes with one hand. 

“What?” Kyle asks.

“Why is this so awkward?” He peeks at Kyle from between his fingers. Kyle laughs despite himself, kneeing Stan under the blanket. 

“Do you think you can talk about it sober?”

“Can you?”

Kyle shrugs. “I can try, I guess.” He feels like he’s shaking but then realizes it’s Stan, vibrating the whole bed as he jiggles his foot. 

“Ok,” he says. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” They nod at each other, waiting. Stan nudges him. “You first.”

“Dude!”

“Come on, please? It doesn't have to be heavy or anything, just.” Stan’s entire face seems to be blushing and Kyle actually feels a little bad for him. “I don’t know. Something.”

Kyle swallows. The list of things Stan can say or do to get Kyle to agree to anything is only going to get longer.

“I found that song you wrote,” he says after a minute.

Stan blanches. “What song?”

“Um, the one in your little notebook—K, or something.”

“Oh god.” Stan throws his whole arm over his face then peeks out, suspicious. “How? Were you snooping through my stuff?”

“I didn’t mean to.” He did, but it was justified, he thinks.

“Alright…” Stan drops his arm and blows out his cheeks. “Thoughts?”

“It kinda freaked me out if I’m being honest.” A flash of dead-Stan echoes behind his eyes. “It was really dark. I thought you might… I don’t know.”

“Might what?”

“I don’t know! It’s really cryptic and says shit about ‘leaving,’ whatever that means.” 

Stan smirks and huffs a laugh. “Dude, I wrote that like over a year ago. You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh. Cool.” Nothing says romance like suggesting your best friend wants to kill himself over you. “So like,” Kyle clears his throat. “How long has it been for you?”

Kyle can’t say it out loud because it’d only embarrass him, but Stan getting flustered like this really does make Kyle feel better. 

“I don’t know, dude, how long has it been for you?”

Kyle can’t meet his eyes. He swallows. “A while. Probably like, three, four years?”

Stan nods, revealing nothing. “Same, I guess.”

“Was it Clyde's party?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Kyle wants to back up a few minutes, tell Stan that talking about it is overrated.

“Clyde’s party?” Stan grins and raises a brow. “You mean that stupid dare?”

“Yeah, alright, ha ha. Whatever. That was kind of the beginning for me.”

“Fuck, if I’d known it was that good for you—”

“Shut up.” He kicks Stan properly this time. “I just—it was a big deal for me.” 

“Yeah, you got really weird after that.”

Kyle glares. “Thanks, dude.”

“It’s not a bad thing, I mean.” His thumb grazes over Kyle’s pulse point, dragging up to the center of his palm. “I think it made me start thinking about it too. Like.” He shakes his head, biting his lip. “Everything just sucked with Wendy all the time and then we’d hang out and it was just. You know. Better.” 

“Really?” Kyle tries not to look too shocked. “I know you guys broke up, but I didn’t think it was all bad.”

“It wasn’t _all_ bad, I just don’t think she really liked me that much.” 

“Seriously? Why?”

“I don’t know.” Stan shrugs. “Maybe she’s gay. 

Laughter bubbles out of them. Their foreheads knock together— _fuck!, OW_ —which makes them laugh more. Somewhere in the shuffle the rest of Stan’s hand slips into Kyle’s, their fingers loosely knitted.

“For real though,” Kyle asks. “What was with her?” 

Stan shrugs. “I think she saw me as more of a project.” 

“That’s fucked up.”

“She was trying to help, it just…” Stan sighs and chews on his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” Kyle says, regretting asking at all. “I know I did the same thing, and it’s fucked up.” 

“It’s ok.”

“It’s really not.”

“It’s different with you.” Stan’s brows furrow together, working this over in his head. “You know me better. Like, when you call me out on something it’s because you’re actually right, not because I’m failing some boyfriend expectation. Maybe that’s the difference between you guys. Or like, how I feel about you.” He glances up at Kyle. “I trust your opinion, or whatever. Does that make sense? Never mind, that sounds so stupid.”

“No, I think I get it. Seriously.” He can’t articulate how much he understands. There’s an implicit element of forgiveness between them, no matter what’s said or whose ego gets bruised. They know they wouldn’t purposely hurt each other, ever. At this point, Stan could run him over with a car and Kyle would forgive him. That’s just what they’re like. 

“Not saying I’m a terrible boyfriend or anything, just, um. You know.”

Neither of them have any illusions that their laughter is authentic, but it is mutual. The horrible, awkward and exhilarating mention of the term ‘boyfriend’ sends Kyle back to kindergarten shyness, wanting to be small and hide behind his mom’s legs. 

“So,” Kyle coughs past the tension. “How come you never said anything?”

“How come _you_ didn’t?”

“I thought you were straight!”

Stan scoffs. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle about it. Not around you, anyway. I kept waiting for you to figure it out, and then after a while I thought you just didn’t feel the same.” 

“What?” Kyle takes serious issue with this interpretation of events. “When? When was this happening?”

“I don’t know.” He presses a fist to his eyes, looking around at Kyle from behind its cover. “There were…moments.”

Kyle could laugh but that would be rude. After all the shit he gave himself about the lists, it was probably a fairly accurate tally of all their ‘moments’ he was barely brave enough to acknowledge.

“So why didn’t you make a move?”

Stan shoves him. “Those _were_ my moves, asshole.” He laughs at Kyle’s expression. “What was I supposed to think? Every time I did something even a little gay you’d get all stiff and weird and be like—” He puts on a strained voice like when they imitate teachers. “ _What are you doing, Stan? Hm?”_

“Dude!” Kyle shoves him back. “I was just nervous! I didn’t want to assume the wrong thing and then—then like, alienate you or something.”

“How would that alienate me? I was the one making the move.”

Kyle groans. “I was just scared, ok?”

“I get that _now_.” He squeezes their hands. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You could’ve tried using actual words.”

“That’s what I’m doing now, right?” He glances up at Kyle, who thinks he might evaporate here and now, every cell in his body ascending to a higher plane at Stan’s shy face. 

It’s much easier to talk about Stan making a move in the past than in the present. Is this a move or is it a line? What’s the difference, really? Is it an invitation or more like a save-the-date?

Stan clears his throat. “How’s it going so far?”

“Good,” Kyle blinks back. “It’s going good.” 

“Cool.” Stan squeezes their hands again, adjusting his head on the pillow. Closer, just by the smallest amount. Then Stan’s stomach makes a sound like an injured animal.

“Oh, dude,” Kyle backs up. “When was the last time you ate? …Stan?”

“You’re gonna get pissy again.”

“Dude!” He sighs and sits up completely. “Ok, we’re getting up. Up! For real.”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Stan whines, face pressed directly against the mattress. “Come on.”

“ _You_ come on, Stan, you’re going to give you yourself an ulcer.” 

“But we’re like.” He moves his mouth just an inch off the mattress, voice marginally less muffled. “ _Talking._ ”

Kyle flushes and grabs Stan by the wrist, yanking. “We have two weeks to talk. You need to eat. Now.”

Stan groans from deep in his chest but does as he’s told. They make Pillsbury biscuits from the can and argue about whether it’s gross to have them with peanut butter. ( _“You use jam, what’s the difference?” “One is NORMAL and one is psychotic, Stan.”_ ) He’d tried to tell Kyle that he wasn’t hungry but the six biscuits and bowl of cereal Stan inhales beg to differ. Kyle feels sick thinking of the circumstances that led to this hunger, how bad things would’ve been if Kyle hadn’t come to get him, but comforts himself that that’s all over with. Stan’s here and so is Kyle—now everything else can fall into place.

They drag the tree back inside to open presents. Stan is genuinely surprised by the board game— _I mentioned this once, dude, how did you remember?_ —and they hug while Stan thanks him, holding there a beat longer than usual. Kyle receives the weed that Stan promised, along with a checkout aisle crossword puzzle book. 

“You know, because you’re smart and stuff. You like those.” 

“I do,” Kyle laughs. “Thanks, Stan.” 

He grins and chews on his lip. “Welcome.” 

“I’m gonna make you do them with me.” 

“What? No. That’s not a present that’s a punishment. Come on, I was trying to be nice.” 

They spend a few hours unpacking and learning the board game—it requires at least 3 players so Stan plays for two people, combing over the rules and mis-explaining them to Kyle before correcting himself two moves later. One of Stan’s players wins although maybe Kyle did too, it’s difficult to understand as there are four different points systems to keep track of. They snacked for most of the game and have a weird dinner of smoothies and frozen fries—most of which end up in the trash for turning to charred rocks after they left them 20 minutes too long. Kyle calls his mother and keeps it short, lets slip Stan’s return as casually as he can. If anything she seems relieved and lets him go without hassle. Another Christmas miracle.

It’s the holiday music station again on TV, and this time there’s even a burning log crackling on the screen. When they’ve settled, sitting no closer than they usually do, Stan asks, “So do you want to smoke that weed or what?”

Kyle snorts. “You’re not going to try and set me on fire again, are you?”

“I can’t set you on fire if you’re already flaming.”

Kyle is aghast. “Dude!” He grabs a pillow and smacks Stan in the face, tackling him backward. 

“I’m sorry!” Stan yells, poorly fending Kyle off. “It was a horrible joke but I had to say it. I had to! I’m sorry!”

“Yeah you’re gonna be fucking sorry,” Kyle laughs. He gets an elbow against Stan’s rib cage, struggling for purchase.

“It was right there! How could I not say it?”

“Easy. Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“I need it to smoke, remember?”

They pass the pipe between them, not even a mention of shotgunning this time. Stan explains the concept of Krampus, evil German Santa Claus, which Kyle has to verify with wikipedia it sounds so ridiculous. They reminisce on the worst things they did as kids, what would’ve gotten them thrown in the bad kid sack. Too many to name, pretty much everything they ever did could’ve been classified as a felony if they were older or not-white. Thank goodness neither Krampus nor justice is real. 

They’re not tired, but when Stan suggests they go to bed Kyle agrees, eagerness pulling them back to the safety of darkness. Kyle’s high enough to feel as excited as he is nervous. One more time, he thinks. Let’s try this one more time.

They fall back into their places from the morning, Stan grabbing Kyle’s hand with confidence.

“Is this ok?” he asks. Mostly confident.

“Yes. You don’t have to keep asking.”

“Sorry, you just—I’m nervous, alright? I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Kyle snorts. “If anyone’s going to fuck this up it’s going to be me.”

“What? How?”

“You’ve actually had girlfriends and like, hooked up.” Outwardly he can laugh about this—inside his neuroses over inexperience are having a field day. “I’m the virgin, remember?”

“So what? I’m a guy-virgin.”

“Still.” Kyle thinks the skills should be transferable for the most part. “You and Bebe were always fooling around.”

“We weren’t _always_ fooling around, what the fuck? Did she say that?”

Kyle doesn’t want to get into this, the soap opera of their relationship that he constructed in his head based on Bebe’s hearsay. “At parties, whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Sorry.” Stan says, ducking his head from what Kyle can tell in the near darkness. “I never _liked_ her for real, though. It’s just different.”

Kyle thinks on that day at the park years ago, Stan’s shy and triumphant smile that he’d finally scored, Kenny’s delight. Stan’s eyes on her chest at the party. If Kyle were less high he could spiral and fixate on this until he’d forgotten Stan’s entire confession from the morning. As it is, memories of his own kiss with her come to the forefront. Fumbling, wet, awful. 

“Did you really think I liked Bebe?” 

Stan shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s what everyone else thought, and I didn’t have proof that you didn’t.”

“Seriously?”

“What do you want me to say?” Stan laughs. “I really didn’t know. You’re not as obvious as you think.”

A small comfort for all the times Kyle was convinced he’d been caught. “Was she um,” Kyle adjusts on the mattress. “You know. Was it good?”

“I don’t really know,” Stan says, wistful almost. “I was blacked out most of the times, I don’t remember a lot.” He combs over the memories in silence, Kyle debating whether now is the right time to talk about consent. “I don’t think it was bad or anything. It’s just like. Something to do.”

“Some _one_ ,” Kyle says, and Stan snorts back laughter, shoves his hand in Kyle’s face. “Was she as bad a kisser as I remember?”

“Dude, she was 12 when you guys made out. Give her a break.”

Kyle grunts back, too high to feign sympathy for someone he’s been jealous of for years. Jealous for what she had with Stan, jealous that she had opportunities to improve in the interim. It’s entirely possible that she was always good and Kyle was the failing party, instincts all wrong, always overthought, overwrought. Stan shuffles closer so that his breath puffs against Kyle’s cheek, effectively silencing his anxieties. He’s glad he’s not sober for this. Maybe later, when he’s braver, it’ll be alright. For now he’ll take all the help he can get. 

“So,” Kyle starts, clearing his throat. “That was a move, right? When we smoked the other night?”

Stan nudges him. “What do you think, Einstein?”

“Ok! Sorry!” He laughs so Stan knows he isn’t mad. “It’s gonna take me a while to get used to this.” 

“You were really clueless the whole time, huh?” He brings Kyle’s hand to his lips, pecking his knuckles. 

“Whatever! It worked out, didn’t it?” His voice is too loud even to his own ears, his heartbeat doing its best to match the volume.

“Do you remember the winter ball? That year we went together?”

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“I kissed your hand at the door.”

Kyle flushes. “Yes. Very memorable.”

Stan talks between kissing across Kyle’s palm. “I chickened out. I kept telling myself to just do it and then I was a total pussy.”

“It’s ok. Seriously—I don’t know how I would’ve reacted if you did that.” Probably favorably, but who knows. “You said I was already acting weird, right? I might’ve gone totally off the rails.”

“That’s not the only time it happened.”

“What do you mean? When?”

“I don’t know,” Stan kisses Kyle’s thumb then pulls his hand away, sliding his fingers over Kyle’s scalp behind his ear. “A lot of times. I always made some dumb excuse about why I couldn’t, but.” He’s leaned closer without Kyle noticing until his lips move against Kyle’s cheek, his chin, his eyelids. “I was being an idiot.” Brush of his thumb over Kyle’s earlobe. “I should’ve just kissed you.” 

It’s easy this time, gentler and sweeter and happier than he’s ever felt. It’s not long before Kyle gets the hang of it, fisting his hand in Stan’s shirt and pulling him closer. Gentle turns to less gentle to pleading, Stan moving to Kyle’s neck to leave marks he’ll feel shy about later. Kyle is braver than he expected, though he’s never wanted anything this much. It takes a while to realize the weight that’s lifted, how easy it becomes to say that he wants something when he knows he will have it. Stan meets him for every kiss and breath and slip of hands under shirts. It’s just easy now, and why had he ever worried?

They lose time. After taking turns lying across the other’s chest they end up back on their sides, legs braided together. Stan hums against Kyle’s mouth and pets his cheek, pulling away to laugh and drop his head against the pillow.

“Holy shit,” he chuckles. “Holy fucking shit.” Kyle can hear the grin. 

He leans over Stan. “Why’d you stop?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“So what?”

“I can’t believe I have to convince you of all people to go to bed.”

“We’re already in bed.”

Acknowledging this feels weighted somehow, and rather than let Stan make some snarky remark about why he’d rather sleep than make out some more, Kyle declares that Stan is right and they should attempt sleep. Emphasis on attempt—Kyle knows full well he’ll be too buzzed to sleep for at least another hour.

Stan exercises his own bravery by lying his head on Kyle’s chest, scooting himself so he’s flush against Kyle’s side. Kyle puts his hand on the back of Stan’s neck, teasing the soft strands at the hairline. Stan’s breathing evens and slows, sighing now and again as he resettles. They don’t always say goodnight to each other, but they usually do. Kyle makes a bet that Stan is still awake, and he’s right, just barely.

“What did you mean in that song?” Kyle asks to the dark, clearing the scratch from his throat. 

“Hm?” 

“The song you wrote. You said ‘if you leave I’ll leave too.’ What does that mean?” Kyle should leave it alone but he can’t, he’ll only be brave for so long.

“Why,” he laughs and kisses Kyle’s chest. “Are you going somewhere?” 

“Stan.”

Kyle’s hand tightens on Stan’s arm as he continues to say nothing. He wants to let this go and turn his back to the comet, reason that the likelihood it’s coming for him is low—just don’t look and your gut will never know. Except he has to look. He is duty bound to Stan but also to himself—now that he has this he can never, ever be without it. Now that their happiness is tied together he finally has real incentive to protect it. Stan still hasn’t said anything, half-sighs every time Kyle thinks he’s about to talk.

“Dude?” He asks after a while, afraid he’ll pop from impatience and ruin the whole thing. 

Stan heaves another sigh, talking into Kyle’s chest. “It’s not like I’ve never talked about it before.”

Kyle’s stomach sinks. “I’m sorry,” he says, quieter than before. 

“It’s ok, I don’t want you to feel bad for me or anything.”

“I don’t,” Kyle says. “I just feel, you know, sympathy for you. I’m not trying to be condescending.”

“I know you’re not.” Stan nudges Kyle’s shin with his toe. “Thanks.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You already help. All the time, just being with me. Or, like, around me or whatever.”

They’ll dance around this happy awkwardness for the next few days, too shy to ask the other if this is ‘official,’ what any of that means for them. Kyle’s too anxious to hear it just now, too paranoid that his pessimism will come true. 

“What does it feel like?” Kyle asks, bracing himself.

“What?”

“When you’re feeling that way. What’s it like?”

He half expects Stan to delay the conversation, ask to sleep or give a vague answer, claim amnesia, plead the fifth. 

Instead he says, “I fantasize about my funeral a lot.”

Kyle jerks his head down to look at him. “Dude.”

“I know, that’s so goth, right?” Stan chuckles. “No, it’s not really like that, I’m not all sad about it or anything. It’s just weird stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s all the dumb shit, like, will they do it at the church and is that organ lady going to play a song? Or do they just do it at the funeral home and everybody sits in those shitty plastic chairs.” He adjusts their legs, twisting tighter around Kyle’s calves. “Sometimes it’s imagining the program and there being typos in it because the person who typed it up at the funeral home was talking on the phone at the same time. You know? Stuff like that.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, and it’s always, just, awkward. That’s the main thing. It’s super awkward and no one wants to be there. My parents are obviously fighting and Shelly refused to go because she won’t be anywhere near them. A couple times I’ve thought about your dad getting into a fight with mine and then you storm out before the service finishes because you’re just over it.”

Kyle’s throat pinches. “I would never do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s not going to happen.” He squeezes Stan’s arm, enough to hurt. “That would never happen.”

“I know.” Stan sighs, foot tapping a ceaseless rhythm. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to freak you out. I know it’s fucked up but it’s just on my mind a lot. Some weird escapism thing.” 

Kyle nods against Stan’s hair. He has to force himself to stay quiet as he feels Stan gearing up for more by the tightness in his shoulders. 

“It’s not always the funeral thing,” he says, “A lot of the time it’s imagining people dumping me or just cutting me off.” A humorless laugh. “They always have really good reasons, you know?” 

They spend a minute in silence, Kyle arguing every way he can to not say this. 

“This is going to come out wrong and probably just annoy you,” Kyle sighs. “But I have to say it.”

Stan tenses against him. “Ok?”

“You can’t push me away. I’m serious, you can’t. You can try, but it won’t work. Like, yes, probably at some point I will get frustrated that there’s nothing I can do most of the time to help you feel better, because it’s an illness and I’m not a doctor or a cure or whatever. And it’s going to piss me off, it already pisses me off. That’s fine. I mean, maybe it’s not fine with you and I’ll have to figure out how to control it, but. Whatever. There’s nothing you can do and no way you can be that’s going to make me hate you or stop—” He swallows. “Feeling how I do. Ok? I’m never going to hate you. Ever.”

Stan sighs, scratching his fingers along Kyle’s ribcage. “What if I turn into a dick or I cheat on you or something?”

“I don’t think you’re going to do that. I know you’re not.”

Stan scoffs. “You can’t _know_ that.”

“I actually can. I know you better than anyone. Except yourself, obviously.” They huff twin chuckles. “You’re a good person. I don’t care what happens or what you say or do. If you’re being an asshole I’ll let you know, but you’re not an irredeemable person. You’re like, my favorite person.” 

“Thanks,” Stan says, flat and shy. “It’s mutual.”

Kyle catches the break in his voice before he speaks. “You’re not allowed to leave either, ok?” He tips Stan’s face up to meet his. “I don’t want you to die until I do.”

They kiss, Kyle doing his best in his unpracticed fashion to communicate to Stan without words, in this new way they’re learning together. They part after a moment, Stan’s surprised laughter spilling between them. 

“Wow, dude,” Stan says, hiding his face against Kyle.

“You don’t remember saying that to me?”

“What?” Stan looks up. “When?”

“After my kidney transplant.”

He laughs, rests his head again. “That’s so gay.”

Kyle lets his eyes slip closed. “I should’ve known.”

“You really should’ve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright guys thanks for sticking with it so far! I've finally caught up with myself so I'll try to finish the last chapter ASAP. Full disclosure it's basically just a long-ass one shot about prom so sit tight if that's your thing!


	9. Saturday - May 7th

If Stan takes another picture Kyle’s going to slap the phone out of his hand. It’s bad enough that his mom is doing it, sending them out to family group texts, cooing and beaming every few seconds. Kyle barely agreed to go to the salon in the first place, let alone bring witnesses. He and his mother made a bargain that if he let her take him to get his hair done for prom, she’d pay for his suit. For lack of funds and anything fitting, Kyle agreed. Now Stan and Sheila stand on either side of him in the stylist’s chair, snapping photos with their phones and squealing. Well, Sheila is squealing, Stan is biting back giggles and typing something on his phone. The stylist is nice enough, though Kyle doesn’t enjoy her comments about how he can improve the texture of his hair, get rid of that ‘frizzy’ look. He can appreciate that part of her job is upselling products people don’t need, but it’d be great if she didn’t disparage a central feature of his appearance in the process. 

She whips the cape off his shoulders, letting the chair whoosh down. 

“What do you think?” She asks, a cheery glint in her eye that says she only wants one answer.

“It’s absolutely perfect, Priscilla, you’re a miracle worker,” Sheila answers for him. 

Kyle looks to Stan who’s still texting, leaning against the empty chair beside him. In the mirror Kyle dabs at the quiff, stiff as a rock, the product of 80 minutes of hard work. 

“Dude,” Kyle says, kicking at Stan’s foot. “Be honest with me. How bad is it?”

He glances up. “It’s not bad, it looks great.” His eyes flick up and down from the hair to Kyle’s face.

“But?”

“Nothing,” he laughs, kicking back at Kyle. “It’s good. You barely look like you, that’s all.” 

“I thought you said it looked good.”

“It does! What? What did I say wrong?”

“So it’s good to look nothing like myself?”

Stan groans. “Oh my _god_ , dude. It’s gonna be fine, ok? You look formal. It’s nice.”

Kyle looks back at his mother and Priscilla chattering away. “Yeah, nice for you. You didn’t have to spend over an hour with someone yanking your hair from your scalp.”

“What can I say,” Stan clicks his tongue and winks. “You can’t improve on perfection.”

“Alright, Stanley,” Sheila announces. “Your turn.”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t think you were walking out of here like that, did you? Have a seat, I’m picking up your suits in an hour.”

Kyle laughs openly at Stan’s stunned, uncomfortable face. They don’t do nearly as much for him—just a wash, trim up the back and sides and blow dry—which takes less than half the time of Kyle’s. In the end he mostly looks the same as he always does, just cleaner, shy confidence as he ruffles it in the mirror, glancing over at Kyle.

“Good?” He asks Kyle as the women beam at them both.

Kyle sends him a telepathic message— _ask me later_ —that he thinks Stan actually receives. They’re getting better at it, spending twenty minutes before bed each night meditating on a single thought and trying to transmit it to the other. It’s stupid but it has a meditative effect that makes Kyle sleep easier. Stan smirks back at Kyle through the mirror and they let their hands rest on the middle seat for the ride back, knuckles brushing against each other. 

Ike laughs at Kyle until their mother threatens to ground him. “You look like you’re from Jersey,” he says, wrestling with Kyle as he tries to pull Ike’s phone from his hand. 

“How’d you like to be dead, dickbag, huh?”

“Kyle!” Sheila calls from the kitchen. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Kyle lowers his voice, biting his words out at Ike. 

“He’s right, technically,” Stan chimes in. “You are from Jersey.”

Ike snorts, smirks at Stan. “Exactly.” 

Kyle glares. He hates when they team up against him.

Stan stares back at Kyle and says, “It’s not more embarrassing than being from Canada.”

“Hey!” Ike shouts.

“Alright you boys,” Sheila breezes back through the living room, jingling her keys out of her purse. “Behave yourselves. I’ll be back in an hour. Ike, Kyle, no patronizing your brother.” 

Stan chuckles as the two throw their mother near identical pissy open-mouthed protests.

“That goes for you, too, Stanley.” 

Stan shuts up and Sheila leaves, Ike rolling his eyes and stomping upstairs. 

“What’s his problem, eh?” Stan does his terrible Canadian accent as he steps toward Kyle.

“He’s gonna kill you if he hears you do that again.”

Stan puts a hand on Kyle’s neck, staring up at his hair. “I’d love to see him try.”

“Don’t test him,” Kyle says, grabbing Stan’s hand down and leading them upstairs. “I’m only bluffing when I threaten him.” He describes an incident from eighth grade when Kyle had to go to an urgent care because Ike had stuck a fork through the webbed skin between Kyle’s thumb and forefinger, tines puncturing all the way through.

Kyle gets the distinct sense that Stan isn’t really listening to him as he texts the group chat about pick-up times. Inside their room, Stan shuts the door behind them, cutting Kyle off mid-sentence as his hands go to Kyle’s face. 

“This is crazy,” he says, biting a smile back as his eyes scan Kyle’s entire head. “You look like a celebrity.”

Kyle scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you look hot.” Stan kisses him, lingering a moment and pushing his thumb into that point under Kyle’s jaw that makes him feel watery. Kyle hums into the kiss, chasing Stan a little as he pulls back. “What about me? Like what you see?”

Almost five months in and Kyle’s still not above blushing. “Yes.” He leans into Stan again. “I mean, you look mostly the same, just like, less greasy.”

Stan chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” 

They spend the next few minutes making out, Kyle leaned against the side of his bed. He’s not used to this either—the freedom to do it at all and the lack of self-consciousness when he opens his legs for Stan to stand between them, trailing his fingers up Stan’s spine. 

Three loud knocks. Ike yelling, “You’re supposed to keep the door open!”

“You really want the door open?” Stan shouts back. “We can do that. Give you the full surround sound.”

Ike makes a fake-retching sound and slams his own bedroom door. They giggle against each other’s mouths, Stan grabbing more firmly at Kyle’s hips as they get back to it. Ike has good enough reason to be grossed out, likely scarred from previous encounters. Ike had been the first in Kyle’s family to find out, walking in on them making out on the couch halfway through February when they thought no one was home. They’re not sure how long he stood there, witnessing in shock before he shouted _SICK_ and ran back up the stairs. Kyle and Stan shouted at him through his door for twenty minutes until Ike swore he’d never tell anyone—why the fuck would he want to anyway, it’s embarrassing enough being his brother as it is. 

Without pulling back Stan presses on Kyle’s stomach, tapping at his hip. 

Kyle hums. “What, dude?”

“Lean back,” he says, nodding and stepping backward.

“I can’t, it’ll fuck up my hair.”

Stan groans. “Come on, man.”

“I swear to god, my mom won’t even let me go if I ruin this before she takes pictures.”

“She took lots of pictures,” Stan chases Kyle’s mouth, landing a few kisses between bobs and weaves. “So did I. She’ll be fine.”

“Stan.”

Kyle’s father has been gone for almost a week on a business trip and they’ve been enjoying the privileges of his absence, ones they won’t have even when they move out at the end of the summer. Stan’s air mattress lies deflated in the other corner of the room, unused since Gerald’s departure on Monday. Kyle shows uncharacteristic boldness in not keeping up appearances for his mother, who speaks to his father daily. She hasn’t said anything to Kyle about it yet, and he has the sense she didn’t share it with his father, either, or he’d likely have received some aggressive texts by now. 

“Fine, then just stay standing.”

Kyle begins to protest but stops himself—there’s no reason _not_ to do this, and he wants to, very very much, watching Stan drop to his knees and tugging on his fly. 

“Make it quick,” Kyle says, eyes slipping shut as Stan presses a palm over him. 

Stan chuckles. “I’ll do my best.”

It isn’t that quick, but Kyle hardly cares by the time he’s close. His phone dings with a text from his mom, she’s on her way back, should just be fifteen minutes or so. Something about the riskiness of the timing helps Kyle finish and he decides to examine that later, preferably when he’s stoned and less anxious. 

“My mom’s on her way back,” Kyle says when Stan hops on the bed, reclining. 

“That’s cool,” he says, grabbing his laptop from the bedside table. “You can get me back later.”

“When, later?”

“I don’t know, we’ll find time. Token’s house has like 600 bedrooms, I’m sure we can slip off at some point.”

Kyle hates that idea but says nothing, Stan’s easier to argue with when he’s drunk. Kyle’s also easier to bend when he’s intoxicated, but that’s a problem for later. Stan clicks through a powerpoint on _Slaughterhouse 5_ that breaks down the use of symbolism in the text. 

“Final review?” Kyle peeks over Stan’s shoulder.

“Mhm. I’m taking it on Monday, ok? Don’t let me forget.”

“I won’t.”

Kyle was proud of himself for finding the course online, a credit recovery program that allowed Stan to retake the first semester of twelfth grade English for just $200, self-paced and largely unmonitored. Kyle was wary that Stan would be able to find the motivation to complete the course without a teacher enforcing standards and deadlines, but Stan has finished with almost a month left to spare and an A-minus to boot. He won’t go to CSU but he’ll graduate, and he’ll save money transferring from Denver community anyway. He, Kyle, and Kenny made a pact to follow each other to Denver in the fall, Kyle in the dorms and Stan and Kenny splitting an apartment nearby. The three of them have spent several late nights high and clicking through listings online, arguing whether it’s ok to rent from a place that doesn’t cover water and trash.

Kyle kisses the top of Stan’s head and plays Solitaire on his phone, willing away thoughts of his classmates’ reaction to his hair and turning up the brightness on his screen to avoid his reflection. It’ll be fine. It’s always fine. Everyone feels humiliated by their prom photos when they're older, he’s just getting a head start.

Kyle barely manages to kick his mom out of the room while they get dressed, she shrieks with joy when they finally descend the stairs. Ike is on the couch, ignoring them, though if he really didn’t want anything to do with it he’d be up in his room. Kyle has enough sense to be suspicious before Sheila’s posing them by the staircase, taking pictures with an actual camera this time. 

A surreal irony bothers Kyle that the only people who know they’re going as dates are in this room. The first few photos feature them standing side by side, then with arms slung around each other’s shoulders, then facing the same direction, Stan’s hands placed lightly on Kyle’s elbows. 

“Put your hands over his,” Sheila says to Kyle between snapshots. 

“How?” he asks, looking down at himself. She walks over and adjusts his arms so they’re crossed over like he’s hugging himself, palms covering Stan’s knuckles. 

“Oh that’s just the sweetest,” she coos, doubly so when Stan leans his head against Kyle’s for a few photos. Kyle spies Ike on the couch, phone held up so it blocks his entire face. Suspicious. 

“Ok,” Kyle huffs, dropping his arms. “Are we done yet?”

“Just a minute, let me grab my computer!”

Kyle sighs, wipes a hand over his eyes and gets startled by how much forehead he’s able to touch. He checks the time—just twenty minutes until Kenny arrives to take them all to Token’s. Once they’re there, Kyle will be fine. The focus will be elsewhere again and not on the most vulnerable part of himself. This wouldn’t be a problem if Kyle had listened to Stan, heeded his wariness from the start.

They’d argued about it. Kyle was certain he’d end up strangling Ike if he threatened one more time to tell their parents about him and Stan if he didn’t pick up his chores for him, stay quiet about the cigarettes in his backpack, give him money to go see a movie. Stan insisted that Ike was all bark no bite, but for Kyle, it didn’t matter whether he’d actually do it or not—the threats alone were bringing him to the edge. No one can have that power over him, no one, much less his brother who’s still short enough to kick like a football if he tries Kyle’s patience. 

_My parents aren’t like his_ , Kyle had thought. It’s natural that Stan would have reservations. _It’ll be fine_ , he told himself, _it’s not like they’ll be that surprised_. He’s not hideous and he’s not completely unbearable, and the South Park student body is small enough that Kyle had no real excuse for his lack of action throughout the highs of puberty. What did they really expect?

But they were surprised. Kyle knew Stan had to meet with a “client” after school and texted him ten minutes before the bell rang, _I’m going to tell them after school. I’ll let you know when to come home._

Ambushing him was purposeful—he couldn’t hear another word of Stan’s worry re: rejection, abandonment, disapproval, disgust. He was ready as he was ever going to be and so were they.

_I can be there if you want,_ Stan sent back.

Kyle answered, _I want to do this myself._

His father had taken to spending the second half of the day working remotely from his home office, his senior position at the firm allowing him to do pretty much whatever the fuck he wants. His mother was in the kitchen and his father upstairs when Kyle declared they needed to have a family meeting—now—to the curiosity and concern of his parents. In the end he presented the facts without pomp or delicacy, simply, “Stan and I are dating.” He had not anticipated his mother’s shock, his father’s pointed silence while she hammered Kyle with questions. 

“But don’t you want to get married?” She gaped. “What about grandchildren?”

“I don’t know! I’m seventeen, Mom, jesus.” 

“But—but I always thought—”

“He just said he’s fucking gay, Sheila, what do you want?”

Kyle thought for a second that maybe his father meant this in Kyle’s defense, but it became clear all too quickly from his pinched mouth and dead gaze that this was something unpleasant he’d rather never talk about, like bringing up your hemorrhoids at a party. It occurred to Kyle that maybe his father had always known and felt angry that Kyle betrayed the unspoken agreement to pretend it wasn’t real. His mother had collected herself by the time Stan came home, Gerald disappeared to his office for the remainder of the evening. She pulled Kyle aside before bed and apologized for her reaction, said that she of all people should know what a legitimate alternative adoption is, that it would all be ok. She would speak to his father in the morning and she was sure he’d calm down, he just needed time for it all to sink in.

Two days later the restrictions came. No sleeping in the same bed anymore, they’d buy Stan an air mattress, door always open when they're alone in a room together. Stan brought up many times how idiotic this was, as it’s not like either of them can get pregnant, but Kyle knew that it was more to do with the concept of his son being intimate with another boy that bothered Gerald. He’d take whatever pains necessary to deter them as much as possible. It took less than a week for them to nail down Kyle’s parents’ schedule, know when it’s ok to move from the air mattress into Kyle’s bed and how early Stan has to set his alarm to crawl back before the others wake. Kyle feels guilty, assures him it’s fine to sleep separate but Stan refuses. He's not trading this for anything, savoring the opportunity while they still live together, unencumbered by roommates. 

Kyle doesn’t like remembering how Stan found him in his room that night he told his parents, crouched at the foot of his bed, hysterical. He knew everyone in the house could probably hear him sobbing but it was uncontrollable. This was the main component of his anguish: he could not control the way his parents felt about him, the way they’d look at him now, what they’d see when they thought of his future, how they’d read his tone the next time he raised his voice. He could not and cannot control what everyone he ever meets will think of him, no matter the content of his words or the weight of his actions. He can’t feel whole without bringing this part of himself to the light, but as a result the rest of him will always fall into shadow. 

Stan sat beside him on the floor, held Kyle’s face to his chest with a hand on his back. Kyle wanted to stop crying so badly it made him cry more, the futility of it. When Kyle lifted his head Stan was crying too, stray tears tracking down his cheeks. “Sorry,” Stan wiped his eyes and sniffed. “It’s just. Hard to see you like this, you know?” Somehow this made Kyle stop crying immediately and they took a nap together on top of the covers until Kyle’s mom came to see him. 

They argued more in the next few weeks. It wasn’t just the restrictions, Stan felt that Gerald’s cold reaction was leaking into the everyday. “He’s being an asshole,” Stan said. Little things, bitter remarks and snide comments at the dinner table, _oh never mind’_ s when talking about anything remotely masculine to either of them. Kyle couldn’t see the change, insisted this is just what his dad is like. In truth they were both right—Gerald had been bitter and derisive about their relationship, but it was merely an extension of the way he’d always treated Kyle: with dismay, like a disappointment. When this became clear to both of them, Stan found it difficult to restrain his own bitterness, biting off remarks of his own in response to Gerald’s, and on one memorable occasion telling him to back off after insinuating that Kyle couldn’t have gotten into Yale, even with his father’s legacy privilege. This was a month ago and Gerald has said almost nothing to Stan since. To Kyle it’s pleasantries and nothing more, small talk at best. 

“Here he is!” Sheila returns to the living room with an open laptop, Gerald’s face up on the screen. “Boys, stand side by side again, let him get a good look at you.”

“Looking sharp, guys,” he says, voice crackly and bland. 

“Kyle, come closer, show your father your hair. Doesn’t he look handsome, Gerald? Our little bubbeh is all grown up.”

“Very nice, Kyle,” he says, though Kyle didn’t come closer and his father is very clearly texting. “Listen, Sheila, I gotta run. Boys, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Kyle smirks. What terrible advice. Gerald spends another minute detailing Tuesday’s flight itinerary to Sheila while Stan pulls out his phone to text. Stan has taken to distracting himself when Gerald speaks so he doesn’t get into trouble. So maybe things aren’t great, but they aren’t awful. Sheila and Kyle do their best to reign in their partners, though Kyle wonders how she can excuse the things her husband says about their own child. At least he knows Stan is right. There was a night just a few weeks ago, when his father’s upset seemed to have calmed for the most part and Kyle thought maybe things would finally settle between them. He got up at 1 AM to piss, Stan asleep and tucked into Kyle’s bed. His parents are usually asleep by 10, so Kyle paused when he saw a light on under their door, heard them arguing quietly on the other side. He was only brave enough to eavesdrop for a few minutes, and even then he left a few feet between him and the door. His father’s voice, frustrated and clipped, _Isn’t it enough that we let him live here?_ Sheila shushed him and whispered something slow and soothing, too hard to make out. Kyle turned around to use the bathroom and get back to bed before he could barge in with his defense. Isn’t it enough that Stan is Kyle’s best friend? That he’s the same kid who’s been coming to Shabbat every week for years, that their sect of Judaism doesn’t even specifically condemn homosexuality, that Kyle loves him, and they’re supposed to love their son? Isn’t all that enough for Gerald to leave them alone? The only real conclusion he can come to is that Stan is right—his father never loved him enough to respect his decisions, never understood him enough to realize that loving Stan isn’t something he can choose. 

Kyle also knows how lucky he is to have gone this long in the dark. He thinks of Stan, whose father openly told him, showed him just how little he thought of his son every day of his life. On nights when he can’t sleep, boiling with rage and despair for how helpless he is against this, he imagines Stan sitting in his laundry basket, drunk and lonely with no one even to defend him. Some mornings Kyle confesses to his late night rages, and Stan is quick to match his energy, ripping Gerald apart for all he’s worth. Kyle wishes it made him feel better. He remembers years and years of shit-talking Randy to Stan, wonders how Stan felt watching Kyle chew out his father that night while he cried on the floor. Did he want to ask Kyle to stop? They may hate their fathers but they love them too, another item to the list of things he can never control and will always wish that he could. 

“Alright,” Stan looks up from his phone. “Kenny’s gonna be here in 5.”

“Oh! That reminds me—” The laptop is away and Sheila fishes into a plastic bag on the couch before turning around to them. “I got you two matching boutonnieres!” She presents the tiny, wrapped pink roses to each of them, who accept with mirrored clueless expressions. 

“Ok?” Kyle asks. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Kyle,” Sheila frowns. “You pin it to each other’s lapel. Let me just grab my camera—there, go on!” She flaps her hand at them. “No, Stanley, higher up. Higher. There, that’s perfect.”

Stan fumbles with the pin, though at least Kyle’s suit has a button hole to shove the thing through. Kyle pricks his thumb twice putting on Stan’s and he’s already panicking about whether or not they’re going to keep these on for the group photos. Couldn’t she have gotten ones that didn’t match? He’s not knowledgeable enough on prom etiquette to know if this is a giveaway. 

“Oh these are just adorable,” Sheila says looking down at the camera’s display. Kyle doubts it, he probably looks constipated. “I’ll email some of these to your mother, Stanley. I’m sure she’d love to see them.”

“Um,” Stan fiddles with his cuffs. “You don’t have to.”

“Don’t worry,” she winks at them. “Just the ones where you’re side by side.”

At the end of January, after over a month of only sporadic text messages and emails exchanged between Sharon and her son, she’d called Stan to tell him that she was moving to Arizona for a ‘new start.’ She’s leasing a condo near the Grand Canyon and she’s sure Stan will fall in love with the town the minute he sets eyes on it, if he’d like to come along. “Think, maybe you could be a park ranger! You always loved animals and that sort of thing.” Stan declined far more politely than she deserved, explaining that it would be too difficult for him to graduate if he changed schools now. She’d sighed, “I thought you might say that,” and promised to come back for his graduation, pending some legal actions she filed against Randy. She didn’t say outright that it was a restraining order, but Stan pieced it together easily enough. He told her it didn’t matter either way, no one had seen Randy since Christmas.

Stan’s father called him on New Year’s Day at four in the morning—Stan had missed the call sleeping—but there was no voicemail or return call on either end. Sheila spoke to some of her friends to see if there was any word, but no one had seen or heard from Randy in months. Mrs. Tucker said the house looked empty the last time she drove past, and in late March it was auctioned off by the bank where it currently remained a construction zone, the new owners embarking on drastic renovations prior to moving in. Stan and Kyle had walked past it, a chain link fence and caution tape wrapped around the perimeter. They stopped for a few minutes, Stan staring at the dismantled facade in silence. Kyle checked the street before nudging his knuckles against the inside of Stan’s palm dangling at his side. 

“We could probably break in, if you wanted,” Kyle said, eyeing a first floor window with only a tarp billowing instead of glass. “Take one last look around.”

Stan’s face stayed the same as he sighed. “That’s ok. It’s not worth it.”

Kyle has stress dreams that Randy is downstairs hammering on his front door, barging in and grabbing Stan from their bed. He’s too afraid to ask if Stan’s restless dreams follow similar plots. 

Kenny, as is his trademark, knocks like he’s running from an angry mob. Stan jogs to the door and lets him in, hood still drawn around his face. 

Kenny muffles something in shock when he gets his eyes on Kyle.

“Dude, what?” Kyle leans forward. 

Kenny removes his hood. “I said, holy mother of dick, dude!”

“What was that young man?” Sheila looks up from her phone.

“Hey, Mrs. Broflovski!” Kenny is the only one of Kyle’s classmates that’s never been afraid of his mother, but then again her expectations of Kenny’s behavior and appearance are low given who his parents are. It’s fucked up, but at least she doesn’t hassle him too much. “Dude, you look like a celebrity.”

“That’s what I said!” Stan turns to Kenny, bumping his shoulder. 

“Yeah, like one of those guys on Jersey Shore.”

“See, Kyle?” His mother sidles up beside him and kisses him on the cheek. “Everyone loves it. You know, maybe we should do this for graduation too, wouldn’t that look nice?”

“Ok, we have to go now, Mom.” Kyle shrugs out of her grip. To Stan, “You got everything? Tickets?”

Stan opens one jacket flap to show off the tickets tucked inside, pats the other one containing the flask that Sheila can’t know about. “Mhm. I’m all set.”

“Let me take just one more picture,” Sheila says. “Get your little friend in there too.”

Kenny stands between them, arms slung over their shoulders with a toothy grin. Kyle corrects himself— _now_ he’s surrounded by the only people in the world who know they’re going as dates. While Kyle was coming out to his parents, Stan went to Kenny’s to confess, claiming he didn’t want to miss out on all the fun. Luckily, while surprised, Kenny had no problem with it, and said that “it actually makes a lot of sense.” Whatever that means.

“One more with Ike.”

“Mom! No, ew.”

“Just one! Stand next to your brother.”

“Over my dead body.”

“ _Ike!_ ” 

His brother groans and joins the group, leaving a foot of space between himself and Kyle. The picture comes out half-good—Kenny and Stan perfectly happy while the Broflovski brothers look like someone killed their dog.

“Ok,” Kyle wrenches himself away. “We’re leaving for real now. Bye, Mom.”

“Oh you look just darling, Kyle. And you too Stanley.” She looks up and down at Kenny’s bleached-stained suit jacket and oddly translucent button up. Frankly, Kyle’s surprised he didn’t show up in one of those tuxedo shirts.

“Dude,” Stan calls to Kenny in the driver’s seat, buckling his belt. “We’re gonna find out in like five minutes anyway, why don’t you just tell us who your date is?”

“No can do, Marsh,” Kenny smiles into the rearview. 

“Why not?” Kyle asks.

“And ruin the surprise? No way.”

Kyle mumbles just loud enough for Kenny to hear, “He probably hired a hooker or something.”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p.’ “It’s a real live girl. Goes to our school and everything.”

Kyle and Stan exchange looks, mentally reviewing all the girls they know. They’re at Token’s house before long, where a white Hummer limo is parked in the circular driveway with a valet rolling out carpet from the front door to the car. Kenny leads them around back, stepping through an ornate wrought iron gate between the side of the house and a large hedge. Laughter and chatter carry in the air, louder and louder as they approach. Kyle feels one large stab of anxious pain in his stomach and then they’re in the backyard, nowhere to hide.

It’s essentially a cocktail party, strings of lights strewn over the lawn, tall, tiny tables set every few feet with intricate centerpieces, waiters walking around with hors d'oeuvres on platters, passing out champagne flutes to tipsy teenagers. The guys are easy to spot but most of the girls are unrecognizable, layers of makeup painted on so their skin looks dusty and waxy and stiff. 

“HOLY SHIT!”

Kyle whips around at the cry. Bebe is crouched to a squat in her maroon gown, heels sinking into the plush grass, pointing straight at Kyle. 

“KYLE!” She shrieks and everyone’s heads turn to the arriving party. “OH. MY GOD. Look at him, Heidi, look at him!”

Fuck it. Prom is overrated. Kyle turns on his heel and makes it a few feet back down the path before almost a dozen hands are on his shoulders, prying him around. 

It’s the girls, every single one of them it seems like, surrounding him on all sides and tapping his quiff like it might wake up and bite. 

“This is seriously amazing,” Bebe says, behind him now, playing with the hair at his neckline while the others surround his front and sides. She half-whispers in his ear, “I always said you were a cutie.”

Kyle looks beyond the girls at the line of guys watching the scene, laughing among themselves. Clyde is farther back, making direct eye contact with Kyle and scowling. This time the hatred feels justified, Bebe is his date after all. Kenny whispers something to Stan, elbowing him in the side. Kyle catches his gaze and Stan holds it as he listens, winks back at Kyle. 

“Alright, alright, yeah I look different. Great. Everyone got a good look? Awesome.” Kyle pries himself from their grip and makes his way over to Stan. That fucking wink. God. “Go easy on the champagne,” Kyle says as he approaches. “You’ve got the whole night ahead of you.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Kenny says, emptying a flute in one gulp. He grabs another off a passing tray. “I plan to be hauled out of there on a stretcher.”

“Ha ha,” Kyle says, though there is a distinct look of uneasiness on Kenny’s face, one Kyle rarely sees unless someone asks where he’s been the last few days. “When’s your date getting here?”

“Yeah,” Stan laughs. “Let’s see the sparkling beauty that agreed to hang out with your drunk ass all night. Oh, hey Wendy.”

Her dress is so pale you can barely tell it’s pink, dainty straps coming off of a tight structured top, resting neatly above a skirt whose fabric looks softer than water. “Hey guys,” she says, tucking her phone into her handbag and grabbing some champagne. “Nice hair, Kyle. What’d I miss?”

“Not much,” Stan answers, elbows Kenny. “Trying to guess which girl we know is brain damaged enough to take Kenny as a date.”

She chokes on her sip. Kenny’s hand rises to her shoulder, a quick “You ok?” as she recovers. 

“If you know, you have to tell us,” Stan says. “I bet she’s a freshman, right?” He clicks his tongue. “Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.”

Kenny’s hand remains on Wendy’s shoulder, even when her eyes cut to him, slicing. “You said you told them.”

“Did I?” Kenny scratches the back of head. “Sorry, I meant I was going to tell them.” His eyes dart to Stan and Kyle before staring at no one, particularly not Wendy. “And then I thought, hey, wouldn’t that be hilarious to surprise them?”

“Are we laughing?” She asks, then looks around them. “They’re not laughing. I’m not laughing. Who exactly finds this hilarious?”

“Wait,” Stan and Kyle start.

“I don’t know!” Kenny raises his hands. “Jeez, can you call off the firing squad? I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she spits, belatedly looking at the other two. “You just made it nice and awkward for everyone. Thanks for that.” 

_Well that actually makes a lot of sense,_ Kyle thinks. Kenny isn’t one to shy away from divulging the details of his exploits, so of course there was another reason. Everyone is looking at Stan, waiting for some kind of reaction. Kyle particularly is curious to know if this burns him, if she’s still precious enough in his memory to conjure hurt, jealousy. Wendy downs the rest of her glass, peeking up at Stan over the rim. 

Stan shrugs. “It’s not awkward unless we make it awkward, right?” 

The group collectively exhales.

“Thanks, Stan,” Wendy gives him a tight smile, her arm leaned against Kenny’s. He’s rocking on his heels and avoiding everyone’s eye contact. 

“So,” Kyle ventures. “Does this mean you guys are like, a thing now, or…?”

Kenny fumbles before Wendy says, “I could ask you the same thing.”

The stunned silence is interrupted by Nichole shouting over an actual megaphone for everyone to line up for photos. The girls take theirs first, nearly twenty of them nestled into a rose covered gazebo where a real photographer with lights and a fancy flash bulb snaps pictures. 

Kenny puffs out his cheeks with a large exhale and finally turns to Stan. “You’re really not mad?” 

“Dude, it’s cool,” Stan says, bumping Kyle with his shoulder. “I’m spoken for, remember?”

“Stan,” Kyle hisses, eyes darting around.

“It’s fine, no one can hear us.” 

“Still,” Kenny hangs his head. “Bro code and all that shit.”

“You’re off the hook, McCormick, have fun.” Stan claps Kenny’s back, which turns into a hug, wrestling Kenny’s head into his elbow. Kenny kicks out at Stan, leaves a brown shoe print on Stan’s trouser leg. 

“Stan the fucking man,” Kenny stands behind Stan and shakes his arms, propping his head on Stan’s shoulder.

“And if it is serious,” Stan cranes his neck back. “I’m glad. You guys are both great.”

“Watch out,” Kenny nods at Kyle, that awful smirk creeping onto his face. “I think your man wants to swing with us.”

Kyle grins sourly. “In your dreams, dude.” He crouches to wipe the dirt off Stan’s leg. 

Kenny heaves a sigh. “I guess you’re right. I’ll always have my dreams. And my hand.”

Stan elbows Kenny on accident and then it’s their turn to line up in the gazebo. Kyle thinks his hair will melt from the heat radiating off the lights, nudges it several times to make sure it hasn’t completely wilted. The guys stand in a long line, hands in pockets, stacked against each other like sardines. Kyle is sandwiched between Stan and some girl’s junior date that he doesn’t know, whose cologne is giving him a headache. Though this is actually better, he finds, than the next round of photos where the girls and boys pair up with their dates, hands on hips, while the dateless stand as pathetic book ends. At least Kyle and Stan get to be next to each other while the other three losers take up the opposite side. In the shuffle Clyde bumps Kyle’s shoulder, hard, issuing a half-hearted sorry as he walks away without looking back. Stan raises an eyebrow but Kyle waves him off—the sooner they leave here the closer they’ll be to having actual fun. 

A second Hummer limo appears beside the first and the group splits in two, couples lining up on the outstretched carpet to enter. A photographer takes a photo at the open car door before they climb in, while another member of hired staff hands out 3” x 5” manila envelopes to each person along the line. 

“What is this?” Kyle turns his over. 

Token, in the same spot as him but in the other line, nods and smiles. “Party favors.”

Out of the envelope, several things plunk into Kyle’s outstretched palm. A box of tic-tacs, a moist towelette, a small vial of hand sanitizer and a condom. 

“Oh, gee!” Butters exclaims when he tips his envelope upside down, scrabbling to pick the condom off the floor. His date doesn’t seem to mind, a lovely unfamiliar girl with six inches on Butters in a gold bedazzled dress with a train that drags on the floor. Kyle doesn’t want to know the story, it’ll probably just depress him. 

“Have fun, boys,” Token smirks as he and Nichole pose for their photo. 

Stan leans over to whisper, “You guys ever think Token has like, too much money?”

Kenny snorts. “You don’t say.” 

They watch as Wendy and Kenny step up to the door, turn around for the photographer. 

“Big smiles!” He says and the two flick their eyes to each other, Kenny placing his arm around her waist. As the shutter clicks, she moves her hand to cover his. Huh. Guess it is serious. 

“Dude,” Stan nudges Kyle. “Kenny looks like he won the lottery.”

“By this town’s standards, he did.”

The photographer turns to them, hesitates before asking, “Um, do you boys also want a photo, or…?”

Kyle answers no thank you before Stan can get any ideas and they climb into the back. Someone’s already popped a bottle and Kyle can barely hear himself think, let alone talk to anyone over the music and shouting the whole ride over.

It’s held in one of the nicer ballrooms of the Airport Hilton, decorated with black and gold confetti and balloons, place settings and streamers to match. It doesn’t feel much different than their other school dances except that food is served—charred filet mignon and limp asparagus covered in some kind of cream sauce. Kyle takes a few bites just to settle his stomach before accepting the flask that’s being passed around the table. Wendy takes a longer swig than anyone, asking _what?_ when they give her looks. 

“Hey, are you finished eating that?” Kenny nods at Kyle, a stem of asparagus disappearing between his teeth. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It tastes like sadness, dude, don’t eat it.”

“This is fine fucking dining, Kyle!” He reaches over Stan and Wendy to grab the plate from in front of Kyle. “God, some people.” He stabs the filet mignon and throws it back, chewing around the chunk. “Fucking prissy pants over here turning down perfectly good free food.”

Wendy watches him and presses her lips together trying not to burst, then laughs with her eyes squeezed shut when Kenny turns to her with a mouth so full he can hardly close it. Kyle spies them holding hands under the table, alternating between avoiding the other’s gaze and being transfixed. Since their table is pressed up against one of the walls, and the alcohol is rapidly working through his system, Kyle grabs onto Stan’s hand too, swinging their entwined fingers between them. They bite down their smiles well enough, they think, Stan squeezing his hand every time he laughs.

There are murmurs that someone brought coke, god knows from where, and hid it in the toilet paper dispenser in the fourth stall of the men’s bathroom. Kyle doesn’t believe it until half the boys are grabbing their dates from the tables and hauling them onto the shitty laminate dance floor, fists pumping, hooting and jumping along to the beat of a dubstep remix. 

“Well,” Stan rises as the couples at their table join the crowd. “Shall we dance?”

Kyle quirks a brow. “I’d hardly call that dancing.”

As he says this Craig is hauled onto someone’s shoulders, howling in glee before he topples with a thunk.

“Come on,” Stan flicks Kyle’s ear. “Everyone’s so fucked up they won’t notice how much we suck.”

Kyle lets Stan haul him up and drag him into the crowd. It smells noxious like sweat with a hint of vomit but to his surprise he doesn’t care so much when the song changes to something he actually knows the words to. Kenny recognizes the DJ and runs to the booth to say hi, some friend of Kevin’s. On second thought, probably the source of the coke everyone keeps talking about. Wendy drags Bebe over to dance with them—Clyde nowhere to be seen—and the four of them bounce and side step in rhythm as the songs change from one nostalgic top 40 hit to the next. During “Good Girls Go Bad” Bebe corners Stan and they lip sync the boy and girl parts. Kyle would wonder how Stan knows this song so well if he weren’t distracted laughing so hard. 

Bebe does a move against Stan that Kyle thinks he recognizes from that Barbie-turns-lawyer movie. A small crowd has gathered around them, other girls joining in to sing at the boys jumping up and down behind Stan. 

“Watch out,” Wendy shouts into Kyle’s ear over the music. Kyle turns to her smirk. “She might actually take a bite of him if you’re not careful.”

Kyle turns to watch them, Stan’s stupid robot dance while Bebe swings off him like a pole. They make eyes at each other that are wide and fervent while they sing, cheeks pink and damp.

“Nah,” Kyle shouts back. “I’m not worried.”

Wendy nods like she approves, exploding into laughter when Kenny leapfrogs over Stan’s shoulders into the center of the crowd, failing to do the worm on the floor. The song transitions to something Kyle doesn’t recognize, but it scatters everyone back to their respective groups to dance. Bebe wipes her forehead and pats Stan’s shoulder. “Thanks, big guy,” she pants. Stan pants back, “Likewise.”

Kenny supplies Wendy with an icy cup of punch from seemingly nowhere, which she presses to Bebe’s cheek.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Bebe exhales, eyes practically rolling back in her head. “That feels amazing. How are you guys not boiling?”

“Maybe because we didn’t just perform a whole Broadway musical,” Wendy laughs. 

Bebe’s eyes fall on Kyle and widen. “ _God_ ,” she flops her arms around his shoulders. “I am _so_ not used to you looking like this. It’s hilarious.”

“Thanks?”

“No, seriously.” She leans in like she might whisper but instead shouts in his ear, “I bet it’d look good with a crown on it.”

Before Kyle can answer she’s pulled off him by Clyde, his bowtie missing half the bow. 

“Why don’t you back the fuck off, Broflovski?” He shoves Kyle’s shoulder, cradling Bebe in his elbow. 

Kyle throws up his hands. “Dude! _She_ threw herself on me, I didn’t—”

“Just because you’re too much of a fuckin’ loser to get your own date doesn’t mean you can steal someone else’s.”

Normally this baseless claim would upset Kyle, but in this moment, with Bebe making faces at Wendy over Clyde’s shoulder, Stan just to the side watching with his mouth open and fists clenched like he’s ready to jump in at any moment—his prom date, his secret boyfriend prom date—Kyle just wants to laugh. 

“Excellent point,” he says, bowing in deference. The whole room spins as he whips back upright. “I meant no offense.”

Clyde narrows his eyes until he decides that Kyle’s probably not making fun of him, that he’s just weird, then hauls Bebe off to a different corner of the floor. 

“Nice one,” Stan says, returning to Kyle’s side. 

He snorts, leans to whisper in Stan’s ear, “You looked like you were ready to defend my honor.”

“I was!” Stan says, not whispering. “I’ll kick anybody's ass.”

“Yeah, right, Marsh,” Craig yells from an adjacent cluster. 

“Psh,” Cartman chimes in. “The last thing that Stan beat was his meat, probably thinking about bending Kyle over later tonight.”

Stan smiles wide, gives him the finger. “Right here, buddy.”

Kyle’s heart swells with affection for how level-headed Stan can be when faced with a completely true accusation. Not about Kyle bending over, exactly, but still. There was a time not so long ago when any jokes resembling the truth made them jumpy and tense. Now they can let it go and simply laugh while someone points out Cartman’s sophomore date making out with Jimmy in the back corner. The DJ turns up the music to cover the sounds of three staff members tackling Cartman, who rages like he’s possessed, scrabbling at Jimmy’s crutch.

_We’re gonna get funky f u n k y f u n k y_

“Oh shit,” Kyle turns to Stan and Kenny, sneaking sips from a flask. “I know this one!”

“You do?” Kenny raises his brows.

“Yes! I had a bar mitzvah, of course I know this song.”

“Then I guess you’d better _clap. Clap-clap. Clap your hands._ ” 

Kenny, Stan and Wendy all clap their hands in front of Kyle’s face until he joins in, stepping into line with the rest of the crowd that’s somehow organized itself into a neat frenzy, like a school of fish. They leave one another just enough space to accommodate criss-crossing, sliding both to the left and right, and of course cha-cha-ing real smooth. Stan sneaks Kyle some more of the awful, awful whisky from his inner pocket and his limbs loosen like he doesn’t have joints at all, just bony tentacles to flop around at will. Stan laughs at him and makes the face that Kyle now knows means he wants to kiss him, and Kyle tries to make the face back that says, _I know how you feel_ — _later?_ An hour slips by like this, throwing himself to the tide and feeling liquid joy when he’s not pulled under by insecurity or paranoia. Just bass and laughter drinking dancing and his friends, yes, friends, pulsing to the same rhythm for one more night.

Clyde and Bebe win prom king and queen which is an obvious fix but no one really cares. Bebe was a sure shot but if it had been anyone other than Clyde, they’d all have to deal with the fall out. He embarrasses himself by making a speech but he’s saved by Token and Craig storming the stage and literally sweeping both him and Bebe off into the crowd. Bebe has the wherewithal to wave as she’s carried away, blowing kisses to the air. Within twenty minutes the overhead lights flick on and the principal takes the mic to announce prom is over, please exit the building in an orderly fashion to wait for your rides. 

The same limos that drove them there take them back to Token’s. The front entrance reminds Kyle of a family trip to Universal Studios in fifth grade, a long red carpet leading to towering open doors lit by spotlights. Staff take coats and bags at the door, handing back numbered charms to claim them later. Kyle and Stan follow the music to a space almost as big as the ballroom they just left, a DJ set up in the corner and lights tastefully dimmed. The main difference is that there are no adults in this room, staff or otherwise. In lieu of waiters there’s a buffet table set up along a wall with every menu item from KFC, Taco Bell, McDonald’s and Sonic on offer. Beside it is the bar, behind which Craig is pouring a bottle of Patrón into Jimmy’s open mouth while Nichole hocks rum and cokes to her friends. Almost every other section of wall is occupied by chairs and sofas with a roaring fireplace at the far end. The music is calibrated to fit the mood precisely—lively but not ecstatic, chill but not drowsy. Kyle thinks of his own party six months ago, how he agonized over the details and the damages when his house is worth only a tenth of Token’s. Kyle laughs. Too much money. 

Jimmy’s story about him and Cartman’s date attracts a bit of a crowd until Cartman gets back from the bathroom and the two have to be physically separated by Craig and Clyde. Stan and Kyle watch the events transpire from the comfort of a plush red love seat. Kenny and Wendy are at their feet, passing around a bottle of Jack that he pilfered from the bar. 

“Have you ever noticed,” Kenny says around a sip. “That like, half the people here have names that start with K?”

“What?” Stan laughs. “No they don’t.”

“Sure they do. There’s me, Kyle, Cartman—”

“Cartman starts with a C, genius,” Kyle kicks Kenny.

“Fine, the ‘k’ sound. Whatever. Clyde, Craig—”

“Kimberly!” Butters shouts, triumphant, cheeks rosy from whatever the other guys plied him with. 

Wendy squints. “Who’s Kimberly?”

“Oh that’s my date.” The gorgeous girl accompanying Butters gives them a shy wave from where she’s glued to the wall. “She’s my cousin from Arkansas. She’s here for spring break so our parents thought it’d be real swell if she came to prom with me.”

Everyone in ear shot makes their best effort to conceal their _OHHHH_ faces. He proceeds to detail her pageant resume as Miss Little Rock until someone proposes a game of Truth or Dare— _like old times, won’t that be hilarious?_

Stan elbows Kyle in the ribs, and Kyle turns to him like he’s moving through milk. “Hm?”

“Check your texts.”

Kyle pulls out his phone to see a message from Stan: _do u want to bail?_

Kyle frowns, types back: _why, do you?_

Stan’s face stays neutral while the others circle up, cross legged on the floor. He texts, _im good either way, i just thought u might be bored_

Kyle considers this. His classmates are as drunk as Kyle’s ever seen them, slumping onto each other and slapping and laughing and teasing between slurred insults and flirtations. This is the kind of thing that normally bores Kyle. It’s mostly the alcohol and a little bit the way Stan’s pinky is burrowing under his thigh, but overall Kyle finds it’s easier not to hate everyone else when he hates himself a little less. 

_i’m good_ , Kyle texts back. _plus i have a plan_

Stan raises his eyebrows and they join the circle on the floor. More people choose truth than expected, leading to the revelations that Craig has peed in Token’s backyard no less than four times this evening alone and Nelly and Red mixed up their boyfriends more than once when they were dating the Janoska twins last year. From there it’s a string of kissing-related dares with a few risqué prank calls peppered in between. Kenny only barely keeps his eyes from popping out of his head while he watches Wendy tie a cherry stem with her tongue. Kyle graciously accepts his dare to cut two inches off of his quiff, knowing that once his hair is curly again it won’t be noticeable in the slightest. Stan admits to everyone’s disappointment that at no point did he hook up with Ms. Dacey, nor did she proposition him in exchange for better grades. Bebe slaps Clyde when he jokes that this means he has an opening, and Kyle feels much better about what he’s going to do. 

Bebe’s turn is next and while the others whisper and titter over what they’ll dare her to do, Kyle clears his throat and announces with his best drunken diction, “I have a dare for you, Bebe.”

All eyes shift to Kyle. The girls make scandalized noises, the guys bite their tongues and give each other faces, glancing between Bebe, Kyle, and Clyde. The latter stares directly at Kyle, barely restrained fury on his face, while the former bats her lashes, says, “Oh do you? And what would that be?”

Clyde is muttering threats under his breath but Kyle can only smile. He really shouldn’t be this bitter—Clyde’s prank did facilitate Stan and Kyle’s relationship in a roundabout way—but the opportunity for revenge is too enticing. Clyde’s face alone when Kyle says the dare makes it all worth it.

“Bebe, I dare you… to kiss the hottest guy here that’s not Clyde.” 

The room erupts in howls.

“That’s fucking evil,” Craig smiles from across the circle. 

“Damn, Kyle,” Nichole whistles. “Going straight for the psychological torture.”

Bebe covers her face with her hands to conceal her laughter. “Kyle!” she whines. “Oh my god, you’re so bad!”

Clyde stands. “Fuck you, Broflovski. She’s not doing it.”

Bebe rolls her eyes. “Calm down, babe.”

“No! He’s doing this just to fuck with me.”

“What,” Kyle asks. “You dared Mark and Nelly to kiss. What’s the big deal?”

“You know what the big fucking deal is, dickface. She’s not doing it.”

“Fine,” Kyle shrugs. “Then do the dare for her.”

“ _What?”_

“You heard me.” Kyle leans back, avoiding the laughing smacks and looks from his peers. This feels better than he thought it would. “Either she does the dare, or you do it. Your choice.”

“Fuck you!” Clyde shouts, stepping toward Kyle. Token and Bebe each grab an arm, yanking him back. “Neither of us are doing it.”

“I had to text that picture of your ass to my grandma,” Craig says. “You said I didn’t have a choice. It’s only fair.” 

“Babe, it’s fine, just let me do the dare,” Bebe tosses her hair over her shoulder, fixing Kyle with a stare. 

“I don’t know,” Token leans to Clyde. “You can’t unsee that, man. Do you really want to know?”

Clyde turns to practically every face in the circle searching for sympathy but finds none. Stan bites his lip and shakes his head while Kenny plants his head in Wendy’s lap as he laughs. 

“FINE!” Clyde explodes, throwing up his hands. “I’ll fucking do it. Assholes.”

“Alright, Clyde,” Cartman pipes up, stretching his arms over his head. “Bring it in. Don’t be shy.”

Clyde downs what’s left of the three cups nearest to him, wobbling on his feet as he stands. “Um, hello, wrong way,” Cartman calls when Clyde wipes his mouth and walks with purpose to Kyle’s side of the circle. His glare is lethal, barreling over with a red face. _Ok_ , Kyle swallows. _Maybe not so funny after all_. 

“Holy shit,” Kenny whispers, grabbing onto Wendy’s shoulders. “Holy _shit._ ”

Clyde collapses to his knees in front of Kyle, teeth bared. Kyle sucks in a breath and physically flinches back, only for Clyde to lean to the right and plant a short hard kiss on Stan’s mouth. 

Kyle chokes as the room erupts in laughter. 

“There,” Clyde stands again and scrapes his lips with his knuckles. “Happy?”

“Um, thanks,” Stan coughs out, his neck and face flushed red. He does a good job of not looking for Kyle’s reaction, wiping his mouth and fending off Kenny and Craig’s punches. Kyle does an objectively bad job at hiding his shock, mouth fallen open as he looks back and forth between Clyde and Stan. Luckily the commotion masks his reaction for the most part, allowing Kenny to kick Kyle back to neutrality unnoticed. 

“That’s it,” Token calls. “Game over. Nothing’s going to beat that.” 

“Well shit,” Red flicks Bebe’s shoulder. “Guess you know who your competition is, huh, Bebe?”

“Oh please.” She gives a grumbling Clyde a quick peck on the cheek as he sits down next to her. “Who hasn’t had a crush on Stan?”

There’s a hum of agreement and knowing nods from most of the girls around the room, Kyle’s face flooding with heat. Someone grabs the aux cord and plays “Party Rock Anthem,” which prompts the entire room to jump to their feet. Butters and his date teach the shuffle to the uninitiated, Kyle tripping over himself and Stan catching him each time. 

“I think you’re too wasted for dancing,” Stan shouts into Kyle’s ear.

“You’re too wasted,” he slurs back, planting his palms flat on Stan’s chest. It takes all his strength not to lean all the way in and abide his primal instinct to claim Stan in front of everyone. 

Stan grabs Kyle’s hands and leans in to whisper, “Sure you don’t want to sneak off? I doubt anyone will notice.”

Kyle snorts. “One more song, horn dog,” he whispers back. The music changes to a down-tempo R&B song, causing the dateless in the room to boo and jeer while the couples hang off each other and sway. 

“Boooo!” Stan cups his hands around his mouth. “No slow shit! More bangers!”

Token scoffs. “Bro, don’t be bitter just because you’re alone.”

“I’m not alone, I’m with Kyle.” Stan puts a hand on his shoulder. “And he’s also alone. So it’s basically like we’re together.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Craig chimes in.

Stan sips from his flask. “Ah, screw you guys. I’m having a great fucking time tonight.” He works Kyle’s neck into the crook of his elbow, shaking Kyle’s booze-loose body like a ragdoll. “You’re having a good time, right?” 

“Jesus,” Kyle laughs, prying at Stan’s arm. “Yes, calm down.”

To the room, Stan shouts, “This is my best friend in the whole fucking world, I love this guy!” He places a sloppy kiss to Kyle’s temple while Kyle attempts to duck out of his grasp. “Ha!” He swipes his palm over the sharp line of Kyle’s recently sliced hair. “You look so dumb.”

“Ugh, sick,” Cartman says as he and his date sway past them. “Go find a fucking bathhouse.”

“Ah shit, I would, but I actually gotta split. Your mom’s waiting up for me and you know how impatient she gets.”

Stan’s drunkenness allows him to slip from Cartman’s swings like a weasel, racing around the perimeter of the room until Cartman winds himself to wheezing. Kyle collapses onto a couch and watches the chase like an old cartoon, chairs, tables and couples toppled in the crossfire. Something starts to swirl in Kyle’s gut. The alcohol, yes, but something else too that makes it hard to look at Stan, scouring the faces of his classmates for signs. Signs of what? Everyone’s too drunk to care, no one will read into what Stan said. No one will know that it’s the first time since they’ve been together that Stan has said he loves Kyle, and that it wasn’t even to his face, just a drunken remark shouted over music in response to an insult. No one will know. No one will care, especially not Kyle. He will not care about this. He will get up and scarf down a crunchy taco to settle his stomach and accept a hit from the joint that’s making the rounds. He is cool about this, and everything is completely fine. 

He waits for the bitterness to settle in while he watches Stan, Heidi, Kenny and Wendy play a game of chicken in the pool. He and his classmates have stripped to their underwear for this, warming themselves in the heated water. Kyle knows well enough that even sober his classmates would piss their hearts out in that pool, and he’s content to sit above them by the mini waterfall/waterslide and observe in his boxers and undershirt. Kenny is on top of Stan’s shoulders, Wendy on top of Heidi’s, and the game is over when both Stan and Heidi decide to dump the other two into the water when it becomes apparent that they’re not actually wrestling, just making out. 

_I should be mad about this_ , Kyle thinks. It is annoying that Stan decided to waste such a big moment in their relationship like this, but he can’t ignore the rhythm of his heart picking up each time he thinks over the memory— _I love this guy!_ Kyle is this guy. Kyle. It’s not that he hasn’t suspected, or even expected, Stan to feel this way after this long, but hearing it out loud is different. It goes against his principles to not be worked up about this. And he is, it’s annoying. Why couldn’t it have come out whispered and passionate during a moment of intimacy like he’d hoped? He didn’t need romance per se, but he thought Stan would give the topic a certain amount of gravitas. Personally, he had planned to take Stan’s lead and say nothing until he said it first. It was going to happen eventually, at the altar at the very least, so he didn’t think there was a rush. _There you go with the double standards,_ Kyle thinks. He’s grown in this particular area since being with Stan, reminding himself that he cannot be mad at someone for not behaving in a way he has no intention to behave himself. Neither one of them should have to do the emotional heavy-lifting for the relationship. Stan had every right to say it however and whenever he wanted, and it did the trick, anyway. Now Kyle knows that Stan loves him. So does everyone else. It feels really fucking good. 

But it’s still a little annoying.

“Human Kite, fly!”

Kyle is hurtling toward the water before he knows what’s happening, closing his eyes but not his nose before plunging through. The water shoots so far up his nostrils it trickles down his throat, chlorine burning all the way. He gasps as he resurfaces, looking up at Cartman and Butters at the top of the waterslide, high-fiving.

Butters cackles. “Professor Chaos strikes again! Beware, Coon and Friends!”

He cannonballs into the pool, splashing the girls perched on the edge who didn’t want to wet their expensive blowouts. Butters swims directly toward Token and Craig, splashing and thrashing all the way.

“Cartman!” Kyle shouts. “What the fuck? _You’re_ part of Coon and Friends. You’re the fucking Coon.”

“Nah, screw you guys, I’m with him now.” He takes a running jump off the top of the slide, attempting some kind of jack knife maneuver, only to flail and belly flop as he hits the surface. A chorus of groans until people get concerned that he’s not moving after thirty seconds. Kenny swims to his body, flips him over. They know he’s alive when he mutters, “Weak.”

Kenny turns around and growls in his Mysterion voice, “Chaos! Let’s finish this!” The others round him up and dunk Butters under the water, then split into their factions from all those years ago. Someone’s going to drown. Stan tackles Kyle from the back while Token has his foot lodged against his chest, scrabbling to not be forced under. It’s now that Kyle realizes for the first time that he will miss them. Turns out, eighteen years in this hell town with these particular people is worth something to him after all. South Park gave as much as it took, and who else besides them could ever understand? 

They dry themselves in the warmth of Token’s massive fireplace. Couples lie in each other’s laps, some strewn across the couches while they talk in small clusters. Kyle is envious, but only a little, sitting cross-legged next to Stan with a foot of space between them. Stan gets up to grab them mashed potatoes and gravy, and his knee knocks against Kyle’s when he returns. They eat their potatoes in relative silence, readjusting their legs so they touch more and more with each movement. 

Kyle chuckles, murmurs, “It’s like I’m in a Victorian novel.”

Stan laughs. “What?”

“You know,” he points with his eyes to their hands, their pinkies grazing between them. “Just like, being worried about ‘impropriety’ or whatever.”

Stan leans toward him, drunken inertia drawing him in. “Can I be honest with you?”

Kyle warms at the closeness, he has no right to chastise given how drunk he is too. “Yeah?” 

He touches Kyle’s wrist as he leans in to his ear. Kyle braces himself. There have been exactly three instances in which Stan whispered something suggestive to Kyle in public and they were all enough to force Kyle either home or to the bathroom—to do something about it or calm down and make it go away. 

Stan cups Kyle’s ear. “I have no idea what impropriety means.”

Kyle snorts, drawing the attention of a few people before they turn around again. 

“It means, like, inappropriate. Scandalous.”

“Oh yeah?” He waggles his eyebrows. “You wanna cause a scandal with me?”

Kyle rolls his eyes, mutters, “Keep it in your pants, Marsh.” 

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Stan looks behind him to the hall. “He seriously does have like thirty bedrooms.”

“Dude.”

“It’s cool if you don’t want to, I’m just. You know. Throwing it out there.” He spoons the remains of his potatoes into his mouth—this certainly isn’t meant to be suggestive but it is anyway somehow, and maybe that’s Kyle’s answer about whether or not he wants to sneak off.

“Thirty bedrooms, huh?”

Stan nods, biting back a smile. “Yep. Want me to go pick one and I’ll text you where to meet me?”

Kyle chuckles. “You’ll need to send me your coordinates or something, this place is a palace.”

Just as Stan lifts himself to his knees, Token shouts “HEY!” in their direction.

Kyle and Stan blanch, freeze, excuses at the ready. 

“Clyde! Dude! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

They turn around to see Clyde and Bebe hand in hand, walking in the direction of the bedrooms. 

Clyde huffs. “The fuck does it look like I’m doing, dude? It’s prom.”

“Nuh-uh.” Token stands and stumbles over to them. “I want fifty bucks.”

“ _Fifty bucks?_ What the fuck, why?”

“Cleaning deposit.”

Bebe seems to think this is extremely funny, laughing so hard she knocks her forehead against Clyde’s shoulder. 

Clyde scowls. “The fuck do you need a cleaning deposit for? You’re rich as fuck, your maid will clean it for you.”

“That’s right. And Gladys deserves a cash bump for cleaning your spooge out of the comforter.”

“Ha!” Bebe laughs, pokes her finger in the soft of Clyde’s cheek. “Spooge.”

“Well?” Token crosses his arms. “Pony up or sit down, cowboy, what’s it gonna be?”

Bebe doubles over laughing again, wheezing, “Cowboy!”

Clyde glares another moment before digging in his wallet and pulling out cash. 

“Thanks!” He turns to the room. “And that goes for all of you. Nobody’s sneaking off without a down payment, got it?”

“Hey babe!” Nichole shouts over. “Can I borrow fifty bucks?”

A play-fight between Token and Craig breaks out, and between the commotion Stan turns to Kyle, asks, “Dude, bail?”

“Really? You want to?”

“Mhmm.” His eyes flick to Kyle’s mouth. “Wanna be alone with you.”

“No time like the present,” he says, too drunk for shyness, and they scramble to put their suits back on, searching for Kenny among the groups.

They find him on a couch in the far corner, Wendy in his lap and sipping wine from a clear plastic cup. 

“Hey,” Stan says. “We’re gonna head if that’s cool.”

“Oh shit,” Kenny looks away from Wendy’s face like he’s coming unstuck. “What time is it?”

Kyle shrugs. “Like 3 or something.”

“You guys aren’t staying over?” Wendy leans her head on Kenny’s shoulder, one of his fingers twirling in her hair. Is this how weird it is for Kenny to see Stan and Kyle together? 

“Nah, we’re wiped,” Stan says. 

Kenny sits up. “You guys need a ride?”

“We’ll be alright. Thanks, though.”

The moment it’s clear they’re no longer needed, Kenny and Wendy reabsorb themselves in each other, giving half-hearted goodbyes to Stan and Kyle, laughing at something whispered between them. Kyle has so many questions. When did this all start? How did it even happen? He’ll find out from Stan, probably, who will badger Kenny for the same information. But maybe he could try asking Wendy himself, treating her like a friend that he’s known his entire life, the same as all his other friends. Wouldn’t that be a nice change?

It’s cold but they’ve walked farther in colder conditions plenty of times. Stan looks around as conspicuously as possible before slinging his arm around Kyle’s shoulder, sauntering along the street away from the wealthy side of town. Kyle takes his own look around before grabbing onto Stan’s hand hanging over his shoulder. It’s the most bold they’ve ever been in public as a couple, but everything’s deserted, even porch lights darkened at this hour. 

“So that was prom,” Kyle announces with a sigh.

“Thoughts? Reviews?”

Kyle smirks. “Not half bad.” 

“I keep telling you parties are fun.” He kisses Kyle on the cheek, wind whipping up and instantly chilling the moisture left behind. 

“Jesus, it’s fucking freezing.”

“Here, let me help.”

Stan gets behind Kyle and drapes himself over his back like a cloak, dead weight almost toppling Kyle backward.

He chuckles. “Fuck, dude, I’m gonna fall.”

“But you _will_ be warm.”

Kyle pauses to gather Stan’s legs into his arms, hitching him onto his back. “That’s better.” He can only walk at half speed but he is in fact much warmer. “We can probably make it home before sunrise.”

“Wow,” Stan says, flopping his cheek onto the top of Kyle’s head. “You’re strong.”

Kyle tuts. “Not really. You’re not heavy.”

“I’m heavi- _er_ , thanks to your mom.” 

This is true, after a few months of eating three regular meals a day, the flesh on Stan’s arms stopped bowing inward at the middle, his ribs harder to count when Kyle grazes his fingers over them. There were many visible improvements to Stan’s appearance—derived mostly from not living in a madhouse—but to point these out to Stan seemed rude somehow. Kyle knows how good Stan looks, tries to show his appreciation in other, nonverbal ways.

“Still not heavy.”

“Remember when I used to carry you like this? In that Lord of the Rings game we used to play? I wanted to be your knight in shining armor.”

Kyle snorts. “So gay.”

“Totally gay.” 

“I’m surprised no one gave us shit for that.”

“They totally did. You don’t remember?”

Kyle scans his memory, elusive and distorted in his current state. “Then why didn’t you stop?”

He feels Stan’s shrug. “I didn’t want to. Plus, ‘Princess Kenny’ was getting way more shit, so by comparison…”

There’s no inhibition to stop Kyle smiling like an idiot. Even as a child before he could really understand his feelings, something about Stan kneeling in front of him, the way he’d grab his hand and bow, _my king_ , made Kyle shy. It felt like something that should be kept between them—the playfulness, the reverence—made all the more confusing when Stan seemed determined to constantly declare it to their peers. It’s taken months to unveil all of Kyle’s blindspots, recounting their history through Stan’s eyes to reveal that he put himself through similar torture over the years. Kyle’s pining was a blip compared to Stan’s, unencumbered by reasoning, repression, flat-out denial of the obvious. Hook-ups with anyone else had more to do with hurting himself than having a good time. They can laugh about it now, but Kyle often wishes he could rocket to the past, punch himself in the face and say, _grow a pair already and just fucking talk to him._

“You seriously looked so good tonight,” Stan slurs into his ear. “Girls were looking at you all night.”

“Yeah right, Casanova. How’s it feel to be the hottest guy in our class, according to Clyde?”

Stan barks a laugh loud enough for Kyle to flinch. “God that was so fucking funny. Who knew, huh?”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Everyone, apparently.”

Stan cranes his head around. “Someone jealous?” He’s smiling too big for Kyle’s liking.

“Why should I be?”

“That’s a yes,” Stan nods, pecking him on the cheek again. The cold is the only thing keeping Kyle from sweating. Stan’s breath on his neck and chest pressed against his back, the burner clicks on in Kyle’s bloodstream at the contact. The added affection only makes it worse. 

Kyle stops in his tracks and lets Stan down, who groans in response.

“Ah, man, please? Just a little farther.”

“Dude, it really will take hours if I have to carry you.”

“Ugh,” he fishes around in his pocket for the flask. “Fine. Ah, damn it.” He turns the container over, not even a drop spilling out. 

Kyle grabs his hand, tugging. “Come on, we’ll be inside soon enough.”

Their hands stay linked the rest of the walk, not entirely fearless but not fearful, either. He’s a kid and he’s drunk and he could do this even if they were just friends. He doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone. He hopes he can carry this confidence to college, sure of himself and sure about them. Stan shuts his eyes while he laughs, rattling off an anecdote that Kyle will someday wish he could remember. But there will be other times, better times than even this, he thinks. Stan removed his tie at some point, the first three buttons of his shirt loosed. He usually only sees the intimate parts of Stan in his darkened bedroom, and even this extra inch of chest that’s exposed to the moonlight feels like a revelation. He’d like to be back in his darkened bedroom right now, and he picks up his pace as they reach the last block. 

They keep quiet as they enter the house, Kyle leading them straight to the kitchen to drink full glasses of water and bringing more with them upstairs. Kyle relishes the sound of his bedroom door shutting, something he’ll miss dearly when his father returns. He’s thankful to any possible gods that tonight he can act on this recurring impulse, one that gets harder to withhold the farther they go. 

He tells Stan, “Take off your suit,” shrugging out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes. “You have to pay if it gets damaged.”

“Uh, do sweats stains count?” Stan laughs. He throws the garments over Kyle’s desk chair, stripped down to his boxers. 

“You’ll be fine. Get on the bed.”

Stan lifts an eyebrow, falling back to sit on the edge. 

Kyle waves at him. “Like, all the way, against the headboard.”

Stan smiles and obliges. “OK…? Now what? Oh. Hi.”

Kyle seats himself on Stan’s lap, taking only a moment to appreciate the view before ducking to kiss Stan’s lips, then jaw, then neck.

He feels Stan’s laugh against his mouth. “What’s this?” he asks, running his hands down Kyle’s sides.

“This is ‘getting you back later,’ remember?” 

“Uh huh,” he grunts, bucking his hips up against Kyle’s. He guides Kyle’s mouth back to his, losing time with just this until Kyle can hardly breathe.

He takes a breath, back to kissing down the column of Stan’s throat. “Have any requests?”

“Um,” Stan chokes out, a huffed laugh. “Dealer’s choice?”

Kyle chuckles. “Ok. I can probably think of something.” He presses the heel of his palm over Stan, kneading until he hears that gasp, Stan’s fingers twisting into his shirt. Thank god for business trips. Thank god for closed doors. 

* * *

The first edges of sunlight creep to the horizon, not yet bright enough to breach the drawn curtains of the bedroom. They lie in their usual position, Stan’s head resting on Kyle’s chest with Kyle’s arm gathering him close. Their skin sticks together, stinging as Kyle lifts his hand to cradle the base of Stan’s skull, kiss his forehead. If he were any less exhausted Kyle would laugh at the cliche, scoring on prom night like the best of them. Six months ago he’d imagined himself lurking on the sidelines, watching Stan slow dance with Bebe, crowns adorning their heads, Kyle pinching himself to keep from breaking down. What an absurd anxiety it seems now. He’s only a little tipsy, reaching for the water on his bedside table to counteract the prickling headache forming behind his eyes. He nudges Stan’s head with the glass, telling him to drink up.

He replies with a hum, unmoving. 

Kyle cranes to try and see his face. “You ok?”

“Yeah. Just don’t wanna move. I’m gonna miss this.”

“Miss what?”

“You know.” He squeezes his arms slung around Kyle’s torso. “This.”

Kyle quirks a brow. “Do we have to stop…?”

“Can’t exactly do this when you’re living at the dorms.” 

Kyle sighs. He’s been avoiding this fact himself, putting off the memory of how awful falling asleep alone is, how much he’ll miss Stan when they’re apart. 

“I can probably sleep at your place some nights.”

“ _Some_ nights.”

Kyle chuckles. “Yeah, _some_ nights. It’ll be fine, we’ll get used to it.”

“I just wish we could live together,” he mutters into Kyle’s chest. It’s not the first time he’s expressed this. Kyle’s scholarships won’t allow him to live off-campus for the first year, and he also knows if he didn’t do this he’d always wonder how it would’ve gone and might resent Stan for it in the long run. This is better. Painful, but better. 

“I know,” he says in place of anything better to say, rubbing his palm between Stan’s shoulder blades. “Someday.” 

“What if I fuck up again without you?”

Kyle tsks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean. I don’t do well on my own.”

This too has occurred to Kyle, that Stan’s academic progress could backslide in his absence. A concern, but not one rational enough to warrant intervention.

Kyle sighs, mentally prepping his arguments. “Ok, well, first of all, you’re not ‘on your own’ or ‘without me’ or whatever. I’m going to live twenty minutes away from you at worst, and we’re not going to just stop seeing each other.”

“Yeah,” Stan mumbles, thumb circling Kyle’s earlobe. “But it’ll be different. You’ll have your own thing going on—”

“ _You’re_ one of my things. That’s included.” He forces Stan’s eye contact who bites his lips together, nodding. “I’m going to have new classes, probably some new friends, _and_ a boyfriend. Those are all my things. And you’re going to have those things too. They won’t be exactly the same like it has been, but. We’ll adjust, you know?”

He traces his fingertips over Kyle’s bare chest, squirming when it starts to tickle. After a minute, Stan says, “I don’t respond well to change, historically.”

“Historically, you lived in a fucked up house and didn’t have any real support because no one knew what was going on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan sighs. “I know. I get in my own way.”

Kyle rolls his eyes—he can’t get in trouble for it if it’s too dark for Stan to see. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Isn’t it?”

He taps on Stan’s forehead. “No, dickhead.” This is the affectionate nickname he’s given the voice in Stan’s head that tries to convince him Kyle is an asshole who secretly hates him. “What I’m saying is that you’re a real adult now and you don’t have to hide from anything or take shit from anyone. It probably won’t be _easy_ or anything, but it’ll be different. You’re not doomed to failure.”

Stan puffs his cheeks with a large exhale, clucking his tongue after a moment. “It sounds so convincing when you say it.”

Kyle narrows his eyes. “Is the dickhead telling you otherwise?”

Stan huffs a weak laugh. “You know it. Talks shit all day.”

“See? This is why we need to get better at the psychic stuff. I’m gonna hijack your brain and kick that guy’s ass.”

Stan kisses his chest. “My hero.” 

Kyle’s thoughts drift to his awful Human Kite costume, then into reminiscing on the night they just had, the bad food and the awful dancing and the drinking and the swimming and the kicking and laughing and how all of it despite reason was this close to perfect.

“I think I want to be out in Denver,” Kyle says into the silence. “Like at school, I mean. If that’s ok with you.”

He isn’t sure that Stan’s even awake, but then he lifts his head, nods like he’s missing something. 

“Yeah?” Stan says. “That’s fine.”

“Ok.” Kyle swallows. He’d been expecting Stan to have an opinion on this. “For real though? Like, I can tell people you’re my boyfriend?”

Stan chuckles, sets his head back down. “Yes, you can tell people. They’re all strangers to me anyway.”

“Do you think you’ll be out?”

“I guess. If it comes up,” Stan shrugs. Kyle’s heart sinks just a millimeter, realizing he’d hoped the answer would be an enthusiastic yes. “Although,” he pushes himself up to Kyle’s height, pecking him on the lips. “If tonight’s any indication I might not be able to stop myself.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” He flicks Stan’s forehead. “Blurt it out, why don’t you.”

“No one thought anything, it’s fine.”

“I can’t believe that’s how you chose to finally say it.”

Stan’s laugh dies in confusion. “Wait, say what?”

Kyle could slap him. “Dude. You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

“You _love_ me? Allegedly?”

“Oh. What? I’ve said that before.”

“You absolutely have not fucking said that before.”

“I thought I did,” he says with his signature panic-smile stuck to his face. “I really thought I did. Didn’t I? I said it before we were together.”

“That doesn’t count. You only meant it as a friend back then.”

Stan smirks. “No I didn’t.”

Kyle flushes. “Well I didn’t know that at the time, so it still doesn’t count.” 

Stan leans in, a heavy hand on his cheek to match his sleepy kiss. “So… are you going to say it back?”

Kyle scoffs. “You didn’t say it to my face, so I don’t owe you anything.”

Stan laughs. “Ok. I love you.”

Kyle balks, smacking Stan on the chest. “Dude! What the fuck!”

“What? I thought you wanted me to say it.”

“Stop fucking springing it on me!”

“Like you didn’t already know.”

“Cool, well if you already know, then I guess I don’t have to say it.”

“Ouch.” Stan shrugs. “Well, fair’s fair I guess. I’m not gonna force you.”

Kyle huffs. “You don’t want me to say it?”

“I do, but not if you don’t want to.”

Kyle looks at his hands, sighs at how god damn nice he’s being. Stan’s worst habit is refusing to follow along when Kyle tries to pick a fight. He groans. “I do want to say it.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know. Stan makes it seem so easy, but just the thought of saying it makes Kyle’s chest freeze and his throat stiffen. It’s not a problem of feeling it—he’s loved Stan since before he had the words for it—but this symbol of sincerity, this particular vulnerability lies flat at the bottom of a long well, his fingertips straining to reach it. He doesn’t have the trauma excuse like Stan does, and when he asks himself what he’s really afraid of, all that comes to him is an echo of laughter. Blurred faces of classmates and adults and strangers all laughing to the same tune, impossible to stop because it’s impossible to be anyone else. There’s something to unpack there, but it’s dawn already and the longer he doesn’t say it the less Stan will think he means it. _Get over yourself get over yourself get over yourself._

“Nothing, I guess,” he says, slipping his hand into Stan’s. “I don’t know. I guess I got so used to not saying it that it just feels wrong or something.”

“Oh,” Stan swallows. “Yeah, I guess I get that.”

“Not _wrong_ , that sounds bad. Just.” He groans then buries his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. He takes three even breaths and mutters against his skin, “I love you.”

“What was that?”

He surfaces and sighs. “I love you. Ok? We heard it, it’s been said. Love is happening. Are we good?”

Stan is clearly trying not to laugh. “Yep. Got it. Really feeling the love.”

“I’ll get better at it, I just need to practice.”

“In your own time,” Stan says, snuggling down into the bed. “Just know the longer you wait the more points I get.”

Kyle scoffs. “What, like it’s a competition?”

“It is, and I’m winning,” he says with a smirk. 

Kyle lies down, scoots himself against Stan’s back to hold him. “Yeah yeah, I’ll catch up.” One more kiss to the shell of his ear before closing his eyes, mumbling good night.

“Are you tired?” Stan asks.

“Very.”

“I think I crossed over into being awake again.”

“Try to sleep anyway.”

“Yes sir.” He lightly hums a tune that Kyle only recognizes for how much he’s caught Stan singing it lately. Kyle’s birthday is in 19 days and he’s pretty sure that Stan’s gift is a song, this one, to be specific. It’s nice, kind of catchy from what Kyle can tell with his limited musical knowledge. He’d be happy even if Stan just rewrote the lyrics to Old McDonald and presented it as his own. Having him there is a gift enough. 

Kyle’s bladder will wake him up in a few hours, but he doesn’t mind so much. There’s nothing to tear himself from that he can’t return to. It’s just his best friend, mouth breathing and asleep in his bed that’s really their bed, now. As far as Kyle is concerned, all of his possessions belong equally to Stan. Except maybe toothbrushes. That’s where he can assert his independence. Everything else is Stan’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Tweek I'm so sorry I forgot you existed until it was too difficult to try and add you back in... Thank you everyone for reading and commenting/giving kudos - it all really means so much to me :)


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